


Among Ivory Towers

by raiyana



Series: Modern Middle-Earth [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Professors, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Modern Middle Earth, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 08:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: At the University of Mindon, Erestor's pleasant first day of term is interrupted by the appearance of a golden-haired stranger, who has a tendency to sneak into his thoughts at the most inopportune moments.Meanwhile, Glorfindel is trying to leave his past behind him, creating a new life from the rubble of his old one - falling for a stranger's shy smile wasnotsupposed to be on his to do list!





	1. First day of term at Mindon

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this image](https://glorfindel-of-imladris.tumblr.com/post/173327832974/erestor-and-glorfindel-professors-au-requested) and a few conversations with Ulan... here's your first chapter ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The University of Mindon is laid out around the ancient Mindon Eldaliéva, the White spire of Tirion whence Ingwë, High King of the Eldar once ruled. This story takes place in a sort of fusion Arda/Modern world, and you'll recognise a lot of names from Arda, though everyone has been reborn 'human'. So... modern world, Arda geography ;)  
> Enjoy!

He was late – why did he have to be late today of all days? – and running, trying to remember the way the friendly secretary had shown him lead to his classroom.

In hindsight, accepting the proffered map would have been a wise move, but he’d been distracted by the shy smile-and-nod combo of someone who looked far too pretty to be his new colleague – _weren’t professors supposed to be old and grey like Dr White?_ – passing by with an arm-load of textbooks about literature, pushing his glasses up his narrow nose.

_Dammit,_ he thought, spinning around and staring at the completely unfamiliar intersection, _I was sure it was supposed to be down this corridor?_ Checking his watch gave him less than five minutes to find his classroom and pretend he was a teacher who knew what he was doing.

Keep it together, Glorfindel, it’s a college, not combat. You can do this. 

Pushing his hair back from his face and messing up the careful styling Ecthelion had taught him in an attempt to ‘ _make you look like an adult, Findo, you’re a teacher now, remember, not a soldier._ ’ – he didn’t miss the buzz-cut, really, but at least it didn’t have to be _managed_ – Glorfindel huffed in irritation.

“Are you lost?”

Glorfindel whirled around, groaning internally when he realised that the man who’d been all kinds of delicious in jeans and a band t-shirt was wearing a fucking three-piece suit that left nothing – and _everything_ – to Glorfindel’s suddenly overactive imagination.

_Crap. It’s the cute one,_ Glorfindel panicked.

His new crush smiled. Glorfindel wanted to kiss that smile. Pushing his glasses back up his nose with a slender finger did not make it any better. The sooty lashes feathering against his skin when he blinked at Glorfindel – he was just a tad shorter, and – _Why are those glasses so adorable?_

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, be cool, Glorfindel, BE COO – stupid glasses! They should be_ outlawed!... _along with the way he blinks when he pushes them back up his nose!_

Glorfindel was fairly certain he’d never considered myopia a turn-on before, and he really should say _something_ , but then Professor I-Have-No-Idea-How-Hot-I-Am tilted his head, pursing his lips as a small thoughtful line appeared between his brows.

_Why does that only make him sexier?_ Glorfindel should not want to lick that line away.

_Oh, Eru, help me._

Groaning internally did not help as every single ‘sexy professor’-type erotic scene he’d ever seen flashed through his mind.

_Typical me to develop a fully-formed crush on my first day of teaching!_

“Err… Hi!” he responded, wincing at himself. _Too loud, too loud and too falsely bright and where was Ecthelion to tell him to remember to breathe?_ Pinching his thigh hard, Glorfindel attempted to pull himself together. It didn’t really help.

“Hello.” Another light nod, a not-quite-smile, and Glorfindel thought he might seriously begin hyperventilating at the way that voice caressed such a simple word. “I’m Erestor Cummings, Professor of Literature,” Glorfindel’s new crush said, holding out his hand.

Glorfindel gave him his best flirty smile, intending to ask for directions to his lecture hall – certain that he’d be perfectly alright listening to that barytone reading out the bloody _phonebook_ , and wondering how his students ever got anything done.

_Erestor Cummings, even his bloody name was sexy_ … _Erestor Cummings_ ; painting very enticing images in Glorfindel’s head. Desire filled him, almost startlingly intense, staring at this _Erestor Cummings_ , who repeated his original query with a small smile. Erestor pushed his glasses up his nose again, switching his satchel from one shoulder to the other, a light glow appearing across his cheekbones.

_I want to hear him moan my name,_ Glorfindel thought, _I wonder what it would sound like in his voice - fuck. Fuck. Do not think of -_ In his head, Glorfindel studied the image of Erestor’s hair – mussed up and escaping from its tie – spreading across his pillows, those grey eyes turned dark with desire. _Would you like me to make your name come true, Professor Cummings?_ Blood was rushing southwards swiftly, washing most of his filter along with it in a flood of lust pooling warmth in his groin. His heart seemed bent on beating its way out of his chest, and he could feel his pulse speed up slightly, staring into Erestor’s grey eyes, noting the small flecks of silver than danced across the irises.

Opening his mouth, maybe to introduce himself, maybe to ask for directions, maybe to ask for _more_ , Glorfindel barely registered the words that actually left his mouth.

“I bet they call you the Erector… Professor Cumming a lot,” he chuckled, “Or mention wanting some Cummingtonite.” _And please let me watch… Fuck._

Glorfindel did his best not to flinch when Erestor’s eyes narrowed at him, the soft grey turning into hard granite in in instant, storm clouds of anger swirling in the depths.

“Thankfully, the _students_ here have at least left High School,” Erestor replied icily, those grey eyes dark with displeasure and Glorfindel really should stop thinking about kissing his frown upside down. “Good day to you.”

And then he was gone, leaving Glorfindel to appreciate the fact that his backside was every bit as pleasing as the front, staggering into the wall as the words that had left his mouth began to filter back through his ears and hit his brain like a bucket of ice water.

_You just HAD to say that, didn’t you,_ his inner Ecthelion sighed exasperatedly. Ecthelion would have known what to say – or at least would have seen the signs and stopped _him_ saying anything at all – because leaving Glorfindel alone with adorable guys with nice smiles and sleek black hair was a textbook recipe for disaster.

_Fuck_.

Groaning, Glorfindel sent a text to his best friend for moral support, though he knew the chance of getting an answer was close to nil.

Stupid symphony orchestra with their halfway round the world concerts, really.

His first day hadn’t even _begun_ yet, and already he had managed to alienate one of the two people who had been nice to him so far.

Just great.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Returning from a trip to the library at the hub of Mindon University – the Mindon Eldaliéva itself – Erestor came across Ms Oaks showing a golden-blonde man around. The stranger, informally dressed – term would begin two days later, and everyone was still in ‘summer-mode’; Erestor himself was wearing jeans and a t-shirt he’d once stolen off an ex-boyfriend – could only be the long-awaited part-time lecturer meant to take over while Mrs Gyldencwég was on maternity leave. He had meant to hurry by – he was running late – but something about the man had made him look twice, noting the stonewashed jeans and the long-sleeved t-shirt which were nothing special but showed off his strong build nicely. His hair – left long enough for the ends to kiss his collarbones – was pulled back in a half bun and he exuded a casual sensuality mixed with a sense of watchfulness. Erestor blamed the smile he’d sent him in passing – such nice open _flirtatious_ smiles were rarely aimed in _his_ direction after all – for the small crush he’d been nursing ever since.

Celebrían – fed up with his contemplations of ‘Do you think he’s single?’ – had dared him to introduce himself to his new good-looking colleague. Erestor – somewhat fed up with himself, too, truth be told, it wasn’t _like_ him to fall for someone at a glance – had accepted, wagering the traditional bottle of wine that he’d manage to speak to Nice-Smile the next time he saw him.

Obviously, _that_ had been a mistake, and he’d be sure to tell Celebrían just that over lunch when she asked him if he’d made progress getting to know the object of his newly obliterated crush. Teach him to grow tender feelings based on nothing more than a smile. At least he’d win the bet.

_Why are the pretty ones always such jerks?_ _Do I give off some sort of ‘My Only Aim In Life Is To Be Your Punchline’-vibe? Is it too much to ask for a modicum of respect from a colleague?_ Erestor wondered, huffing to himself as he walked towards his first class of the term. _He doesn’t even have the excuse of being a student testing boundaries – even if he looks almost young enough to pass for one dressed like that – except for the way he filled out that shirt… dammit!_

Tucking his tie back into his waistcoat – undoing it and retying it the way Celeborn had shown him so long ago always calmed him down – Erestor opened the door to his lecture hall, doing his level best to forget all about golden-blonde hair and blue eyes crinkled above a dimply soft smile – _dammit!_

He knew where Mr Jerkface taught, though – Sociology, and wasn’t _that_ a joke? – and it should be simple enough to alter a few routines to avoid bumping into the man until this brief and rather mortifying infatuation with the smile he’d received during the tour dissipated.

_All I need is a bit of time and a bitching session over lunch with Celebrían_ , Erestor told himself decisively, feeling slightly better at the thought of her bright smile and comforting hugs.

Taking his place at the lecturing stand, he waited for the clock to tick over, looking at the new crop of fresh-faced – an exaggeration, half of them looked asleep, still, clutching paper cups filled with coffee – he was meant to be teaching the next few months. Setting up his laptop – carefully not connecting it to the projector until he had opened the slideshow; Celebrían had given him a step-by-step guide to the usage of the machinery in an attempt to make him look like he wasn’t borderline computer illiterate – Erestor took a deep breath, feeling the same sense of excitement that always gripped him at the start of term.

“Welcome, students,” he said crisply, clicking the small controller he kept in his left fist to start the traditional slideshow, “to this year’s ‘Introduction to Literature’. I am Professor Cummings.”

_See? None of the students make jokes about his name. Not even a chuckle. Not one._

The attentive silence of his class did not erase the memory of the arse’s smile, or the flutter of interest Erestor had felt – before he ruined it by talking.

He got through his introductory speech on sheer stubbornness, but he was unable to stop thinking about the morning’s encounter with Prof Jerkface. Angrily stuffing his laptop back into his old satchel, Erestor stared at his class of fresh-faced freshmen, wondering how many of them were actually paying attention. The guy in the front row had hair that was as golden as that new lecturer’s even if his sleepy expression was far less cute. Erestor scowled at himself, attempting to force every thought of that admittedly handsome bloke from his mind.

_Lunch cannot come soon enough_ , he thought.

He dismissed them five minutes early.

 

 

“You could probably file a sexual harassment complaint,” Celebrían mused, spearing a pasta penne on her fork and thoughtfully pointing it at him. “Did I tell you Elrond’s twin is coming to town? He is a lawyer.”

Erestor grimaced. “You did, and I’d really rather just employ the true and tried method of avoid and ignore,” he muttered glumly, poking disinterestedly at his own salad. He didn’t look up at her huff, picking out the last cherry tomato and eating it with some reluctance, knowing there was only bland greenery left when it was gone. Eyeing Celebrían’s container of pasta with envy, he stabbed at the leafy thing on his plate. Having her mother send her lunch at work from her restaurant was cheating, he felt, though in this moment it seemed the height of idiocy to have declined Mama Galadriel’s offer to include him in her daughter’s catered lunches as she had when they were still poor students, tutting away his protests and muttering away in rapid-fire Noldorin that his rudimentary grasp couldn’t follow.

“Told you it’d be inedible,” Bría sniffed, giving his wilted spinach the disdainful look of someone who grew up eating nothing but homegrown organic vegetables. “Here.” Sighing dramatically, she pushed her own plastic container towards him. Erestor had to smile. She was a snob, but he loved her.

“How is this so good?” he groaned moments later, silently pleased that they were alone at the table – the foodgasm sound that left his mouth was perhaps not _quite_ dignified enough for a professor – and rather more bedroom-appropriate than expected.

Bría chuckled, giving him a smug smile. “The power of Nature, my friend,” she declared grandly, adopting a pose straight from King Lear. “That and Mama’s cooking, of course.”

Erestor stole another heavenly mouthful, his moan this time somewhat exaggerated for effect but no less heartfelt.

“Should I be worried about you moaning at my girlfriend, Erestor?” Laughing as he bent to kiss her cheek, Elrond winked at him. Elrond Dahl was good, down-to-the- _bone_ -good, and the greeting was no more than an old inside joke that usually put a smile on Erestor’s face. It didn’t work today.

“I might marry her _mother_ , Starlight, but Silverlocks can’t cook to save her life,” Erestor pointed out, stealing another bite when Celebrían jumped up to hug her boyfriend. He chewed contentedly. Over the summers he always forgot just how terrible cafeteria food really was. The next time Mama Galadriel offered him lunch, he’d kiss her.

“Sad, but true,” Bría shrugged, stealing another kiss. Elrond chuckled.

“No, I’m sure you’re quite safe from being cuckolded by the likes of me – Princess Organic over there lacks a few bits I’m really rather fond of finding in my bed, you know?” Erestor muttered, blushing slightly as an image of the golden-blond bloke’s head thrown back in passion flashed across his mind. Celebrían was pretty, he knew, petite and pleasingly plump as one of her former boyfriends had once said. She was just not his type – at all. The idea alone made him feel slightly ill, and not least because he considered her a sister of sorts – the annoying younger kind, of course – but Celebrían just laughed, messing up his hair in revenge. Evil bint.

“As if I’d let you near my ‘bits’,” she teased fondly, “I doubt you’d even know how they worked.”

“I’ve never seen the appeal,” Erestor deadpanned, “no matter how much I like paging through _books_.” Giving her a cheeky grin – it was an old familiar argument they both enjoyed replaying – Erestor mock-shuddered. Bría stuck out her tongue at him.

“Not to worry, my love,” Elrond laughed, “I find your bits appealing enough for both of us.”

Celebrían cooed at him, rewarding her beau with excessively loud and wet kisses in Erestor’s admittedly biased opinion. The loud PDA did not make him feel any better about being perpetually single – no matter how many times Celebrían assured him he was very datable – nor did it make him forget the stupidly kissable curve of that prat’s lips. _Dammit_.

“Can we try _not_ ruining my second attempt at lunch by bringing sex into it?” Erestor asked, making his voice as long-suffering as possible. Stealing the last bites of chicken, he scowled at the empty dish. He was still hungry.

“Hey, you alright?” Elrond asked, suddenly serious, his warm hand comforting when it squeezed Erestor’s shoulder.

“The Name-joke,” Bría explained sotto-voce, “only it wasn’t a _student_ this time.”

Erestor groaned, taking a long draw from his bottle of water. “One of the new part-time lecturers,” he said.

“Yikes.” Elrond patted his shoulder consolingly, only half-joking when he offered to beat the bloke up – or get his brother to sue him at least, both of which Erestor declined.

“I don’t think it’d look good to have the city’s new hot-shot doctor involved in fisticuffs,” he laughed, “and I doubt your brother would approve of having to defend you in court, either.”

“Alas!” Elrond exclaimed dramatically, making them both chuckle, “though I could always challenge this scoundrel to a duel for your honour.”

“Oooh, we could let you carry your staff around!” Celebrían added, “School of Hard Knocks – Erestor Cummings style!” Erestor had to chuckle at that; Bría had inherited all of her mother’s vicious protective streak even if Mama Galadriel was much taller. She grinned.

Elrond nodded seriously. “I wouldn’t want to get on your bad side then,” he nodded, “even if you let me have my sword… though if I have to stand up for you in court later, ‘this conversation never happened’ as Elros would say – premeditated assault is much worse than a crime of passion.”

Erestor smiled at him, imagining sweeping the prat’s – he didn’t even know his name; he needed better insulting monikers, really – legs out from under him with his bo, but even the inevitable bad jokes and laughter of lunch with his friends couldn’t disperse his glum mood entirely.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel’s afternoon seminar was the advanced class, which meant he didn’t have time to worry about running into Erestor and making an idiot of himself. Again. Preparing for his class could not hold his focus, however, continually interrupted by flashes of Erestor, which was probably not a good thing, Glorfindel realised. Shame had kept him at his desk over lunch, sending a series of increasingly desperate and unanswered texts to Ecthelion, who was most likely still asleep, and cursing the time-zones that separated him from his best friend.

He ought to pick up some booze on the way home, celebrate the conclusion of his first day as a lecturer of Sociology properly, even if he’d have to do it alone – perhaps he could forget Erestor’s pretty smile, then? Wondering if he should curse or congratulate whichever department head that had decided to give him Thursdays off _and_ scheduling start of term on a Wednesday to boot, Glorfindel caught a flash of black hair – _Erestor?_ – through the frosted glass window in the door that made the coin land squarely on the side of booze just for the way that tiny glimpse of might-be-but-probably-wasn’t-Erestor made his heart trip over itself.

Pathetic. He could hear Ecthelion ribbing him already. Proper mocking of his appalling flirting skills would ensue. Deservedly.

 

* * *

 

 

Stopping by the bathroom to fix his long hair back into its customary tail, Erestor gave himself an encouraging smile in the mirror.

_I’m not going to let some ignoramus ruin my enjoyment of the first day of term_ , he decided, setting off for his next seminar with determination and ignoring the place where he’d bumped into the Golden Prat entirely.

 

Looking over his classroom, Erestor pushed his glasses back up his nose – for the millionth time swearing to fix them so they’d _stay_ there – and smiled at his students. This class was one of his favourites, consisting of serious third-year students, and he felt far more at ease with them than with the fresh crop.

“Welcome to Ancient Myths and Modern Poetics,” he began. “Today, we’ll begin with the works of Sappho…”

_Always good to start with a fun topic_ , Erestor thought, remembering Celebrían’s dramatic readings of some of the translations he was teaching now, back when he’d been the one trying to learn these things, with a small smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When the last student finally left, Glorfindel hid his head in his hands, groaning at himself. He _wanted_ to be a good teacher, and this Erestor distraction was something he so _did not_ need.

Shooting off another text to Ecto – mostly composed of emojis because that would annoy him when he got round to reading it – Glorfindel pushed away from the lecturer’s stand, packing up his laptop swiftly.

_I need my best friend here, Ecto!_

Scowling at the needy tone of his own mental voice but knowing that he _would_ feel better if he could talk it out with Ecthelion, Glorfindel tugged the strap of his bag up onto his shoulder, leaving his first day of teaching behind with frustration hurrying his steps. Truly, it was beyond inconsiderate of Ecto to go off to the other side of the world on Glorfindel’s _first_ day as a teacher – especially when Glorfindel needed to freak out at him about his cute colleague.

He would call him when he got home, have a proper phone freak-out – Ecto would be available at Umbarian lunchtime, he had promised, even if he’d probably expected gushing rather than crushing – and try to come up with a plan for handling his new infatuation.

Maybe he’d be able to orchestrate running into Erestor and apologise – or at least introduce himself – and try to salvage some sort of cordial working relationship with the man? Ask him out for apology-coffee? Did Erestor drink coffee? Maybe he could bring him coffee in the morning – but what kind… _Stop thinking about Erestor drinking from your mug while wearing your shirt, Glorfindel._

Groaning in frustration, Glorfindel pulled the long strands of his hair back from his face, tying it into a haphazard tail.

He missed Ecto. Something soothing on the cello would go over well right now. Or sparring. Getting pummelled with a sword was really only what he deserved after the idiocy of the morning.

He would go for a run, clear his head. In lieu of his own concert cellist, he’d make do with a recorded one, let the fresh air and the familiar melody wipe his frustrations away. And if a run didn’t work, he’d go down to the corner gym and go four rounds with Gothmog to tire himself out. At least Ecto might be sympathetic about the bruises.

Leaving the building, Glorfindel dug his earbuds out of his pocket, scowling at the tangled wires. Looking up at the sound of laughter, he froze.

_Erestor_.

Erestor was laughing, a sound that felt like molten chocolate running down his spine, and Glorfindel wanted to listen to it forever, taste that sound off his lips and-

_Oh_.

Erestor was wrapping his arm around a petite blonde woman, slinging his jacket over her shoulders as they walked down the street, bending down to speak to her.

Glorfindel felt like he’d been hit good and proper; let Gothmog through his blocks to drive a massive fist into his solar plexus.

He’d been so sure that… _but maybe not?_ Maybe Erestor just smiled at strangers – new colleagues – like that and pushed his glasses up his nose in ways that made besotted fools want to kiss its bridge?

Staring down the tree-lined street, Glorfindel’s mind spun. He could see Ms Short’s arm around Erestor’s waist, his arm casually around her shoulders, walking close together; familiarity making up for their height differences.

How had he misread Erestor _that_ badly? Usually, he was good at deciphering such cues; he’d never flirted at someone who didn’t share his inclinations before.

Glorfindel felt shaken.

At this rate, he’d have a proper good melt-down ready by the time he returned to the flat.

Unfortunately, the person who could him sort out his tangled thoughts was half a world away and would not be back for weeks yet.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Please_ tell me you did not promise this – Elros, was it? Who names _twins_ almost the same name? – that I’d be his ‘date’ on Friday.” Adding sarcastic air quotes and pulling out his keys, Erestor scowled at the petite blonde he called best friend, unlocking the door to the flat they had shared for three years.

“Pleeeeease. Elros doesn’t know anyone but Elrond here – and I’ve only met him a few times! You wouldn’t make me go all alone would you?” Bría wheedled, using the unfair advantage of her large and dewy blue eyes to its fullest, turning on the hallway lamp to blink up at him with her most woebegone soulful expression. Erestor scowled, poking her cheek.

“That won’t work on me-” Except for the part where it totally did – and she bloody well knew it too, her smile already edging towards smug victory – and that meant Erestor was doomed to this inevitably-horrid double date with Elrond and _his twin brother_ – and they were _identical_ and that was… well, Elrond was a decent-looking bloke, at least, objectively, but just the idea of seeing him – even if it wasn’t _him_ him – naked was just… borderline incestuous. Erestor shuddered.

“I’ll bring you lunch for a week!” Bría added, which was enough to give him pause. Mama Galadriel’s cooking was not to be turned down lightly. “ _And_ I’ll get mama to make your favourite cacciatore…” Evil _evil_ bint.

“Fine,” he sighed. _Why did he always give in for food?_ He could _make_ food now, even if it wasn’t as good as Mama Galadriel’s, of course, but still, he was supposed to be an adult, now, not stuck in his string-bean high school days following Bría home to study together and gorge themselves on pasta Alfredo. “But you’re a manipulative evil bint.” Growling at himself, Erestor held out his hand to shake on it.

Celebrían grinned, gripping his hand firmly. “Yes!” she exclaimed, pumping her fist into the air before she attacked him with one of her hugs. The hug was not unexpected and for a moment he enjoyed the light floral scent of her perfume, wrapping his arms around her and returning the pressure. “Thank you, E!”

Of course, the end of hugging Bría was not unexpected either, but Erestor had never discovered the trick of not suffocating on her wild curls – he felt rather green with envy that _Elrond_ had obtained the knack of it, no more than three weeks after meeting his bubbly blonde friend. Bría laughed as she always did, and it made him laugh, too, as _that_ always did, and the world felt right.

“Ice cream and B99 marathon?” she asked, elbowing him lightly. Erestor smiled. She might be an evil bint, but she was _his_ evil bint and he wouldn’t change her for the world.

 

 


	2. To Sleep, perchance to Dream...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The actual chapter 2!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the second chapter :o

Erestor didn’t catch even a glimpse of the blonde arse all day Thursday, slowly relaxing back into the role of competent Professor as the day passed and the familiarity of teaching continued uninterrupted by anything more than a minor technical hiccup. Making a mental note to get Bría to fix it, he packed up quickly, looking forwards to lunch. He might not understand her fascination with the perplexing machinery - if _he_ had had her talent on stage he would have given up the near-incomprehensible classes of computer science entirely, but Bría claimed they were _fun_ , Valar preserve his sanity – but he didn’t need to know _how_ she did her magic to appreciate that it worked _._ she could as easily have been a computer wizard in Erestor’s opinion, but she thought stage drama was more fun than programming drama and to be honest he couldn’t blame her. Celebrían was a gifted actress, and busy working on a new play by some up-and-coming playwright he’d never heard of but he was still going to hold her to the promise of a decent lunch and company.

She delivered on her lunch promise, at least, even if the bloke dropping off the delivery was one of Mama Galadriel’s waiters, not his bubbly friend who shot him an apologetic ‘stuck in rehearsals, see you at home! xoxo’-text.

With a sigh, Erestor claimed a lonely seat on one of the benches that dotted the campus, enjoying the spoils of knowing Foresta d’Oro’s head chef and filling his ears with the soft sound of Lindir’s harp. The young man liked to think he was the second coming of Maglor and carried his small harp everywhere – usually found among a gaggle of admirers lounging on one of the small parks that had been built into Mindon’s design from the very beginning. Erestor, who had been privileged enough to be invited to one of Maglor’s exclusive performances, privately thought young Lindir had at least 15 years of practise left before he’d even approach Maglor’s skill with the instrument, but the light strumming was a nice accompaniment to his lunch.

Leaning back against his bench, balancing his lunch on his knee and feeling the light autumn breeze – it was still warm enough that he could go without his jacket – ruffling his hair, Erestor spent a pleasant hour in his own company, people-watching and imagining the individual stories that went with the groups passing his spot.

 

* * *

 

Glorfindel woke up feeling fairly miserable. The run had not helped his whirling thoughts, and sparring with Gothmog – who had not earned the nickname ‘The Fist’ unfairly – had done very little to convince his stubborn heart that Erestor had not looked at him with interest before his lack of filter ruined it. His verbal addition of ‘ _You just need to get laid, aye?_ ’ in his thick Utumnic accent combined with an almost comical waggle of his bushy eyebrows had only made Glorfindel laugh and wince when his bruises complained in response.

Ecto’s contribution had been equally unhelpful, consisting mostly of variations over the theme of ‘ _Why on earth would you even say something like that? Next time you see him, ignore the brain that lives in your pants, man up and apologise’_ which Glorfindel had already surmised, but did not really make him any more confident that he’d be capable of actual coherency whenever he next met the cute Professor.

 _Actual bloody warfare scares me_ less _… how stupid is that?_

With the recent move, their new flat was still a mess, and Glorfindel knew he _ought_ to sort out some of the things, but the weather outside was still nice and he really didn’t want to remain cooped up alone – it would only lead to his mind going in unproductive circles when he was in this kind of mood. He made a token attempt, managing to get as far as properly reassembling his own bed and discovering the box containing most of his clothes, but decided with only a minor flash of guilt that everything else might as well wait until Ecto returned from Umbar. Ecto was way better at organising things anyhow, and Glorfindel hated unpacking boxes.

Spending the day walking through the new neighbourhood – Ecto was the best friend ever, willing to move across the city just to be closer to Glorfindel’s new work; he should plan to take him out somewhere nice when he got home as a thankyou – familiarising himself with the sights and points of interest sounded like a plan; it beat morose sighing at his own idiocy and mooning over Erestor who would probably have forgotten all about him by now anyway.

Instead of moping at home, trapped with the demons in his head for company, Glorfindel pulled on a clean polo and went outside, soaking up the sunlight and the sounds of a living, breathing cityscape.

The Foresta d’Oro restaurant – a cosy little Noldorin place that managed to exude warmth and hospitality without becoming kitschy; Ecthelion would probably like it – seemed to be doing well based on the number of patrons around lunchtime, and on a whim, Glorfindel went in to book a table for two on the Saturday after Ecthelion’s return. Leaving the restaurant – sipping on a to go cup of café con leche that had tempted him beyond belief – he turned south along the street, catching sight of a martial arts dojo a few buildings further down. Making a mental note to pay a visit during opening hours – they offered classes in weaponry as well as more mundane subjects – where he might be able to find a temporary sparring partner while Ecto was away, Glorfindel continued on his walk.

The park contained a number of objectively beautiful people licking up the sun of the afternoon – more than a few giving him interested glances, but Glorfindel felt a distinct lack of desire to follow Gothmog’s well-intentioned advice – and a large wolfhound followed him around for a while, getting him involved in a frisbee match against the teens he belonged to which took up most of the time until dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

Picking up dinner on his way home, Erestor whistled as he walked, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder along with his satchel and the pad thai container in the other, enjoying the sunlight dancing over his skin. Waving at the wizened old lady who ran the tea shop on the corner, he turned down the narrow street that had been home for three years, skipping happily up the steps to the front door.

“Bría!” he called, walking into the flat, “you home?”

“Bedroom,” she called back, the tone of her voice making him sigh, leaving the bag and its enticingly smelling contents on the kitchen table and making his way through the flat. Pausing to hang up his coat and take off his shoes, he poked his head through her door, expecting – and finding – the familiar sight of Celebrían surrounded by what could best be described as an exploded closet.

“You _do_ realise that Elrond is already head over heels for you, yes?” he drawled, leaning against the doorjamb. “And this Elros bloke is going to love you – because his brother loves you – no matter what frock you throw on.” Bría scowled at him, tearing a blouse off over her head with an unhappy facial expression.

“I have _nothing_ to wear!” she exclaimed crossly, crossing her arms under her breasts in a way he’d probably have found intriguing if he’d been so inclined and glared at him in the mirror.

Erestor raised an eloquent eyebrow, glancing around the clothes-strewn room once. Bría’s scowl darkened.

“I don’t have class tomorrow morning,” he sighed, already regretting the words leaving his mouth, “I’ll go shopping with you.”

She squealed loud enough to hurt his ears and threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug, smashing her breasts into his chest in the process. Erestor gently extricated himself, knowing that his cheeks were warm enough to show. He might have lived with her ever since they left home for a student flat-share – and he’d seen her in the altogether more times than he wanted to remember over the years – but he still wasn’t quite comfortable being hugged by semi-naked Celebrían.

“Throw on something and come eat before the food goes cold,” he sighed, smiling as he shook his head at her, returning to the kitchen to lay out plates.

“You’re the best friend ever,” Celebrían said when she joined him, wrapping an arm around his waist in a half-hug. Turning his head, he dropped a kiss on her hair, retreating before the wild curls could suffocate him.

“Yes,” he teased, giving her a mock bow from the waist, “or perhaps I’m going to make you look at ties with me tomorrow…” Giving her an evilly gleeful grin, he vaulted over the couch away from her soon-to-be-tickling fingers reaching for his waist.

Bría laughed, pulling a pair of glasses from the cupboard and filling a carafe of water. “Beer?” she asked, staring into the depths of the fridge.

“I don’t think we have any,” Erestor replied, absentmindedly undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. Leaving the garment hanging over the back of a chair, he grabbed the plates and the pad thai, turning on the tv to continue their b99 binge.

“Good day?” Bría asked, settling beside him and taking her own plate. Erestor nodded, mouth full. “You won’t believe what happened during stage blocking today,” she giggled. “Remember that bloke, Haldir?”

“Blonde, well fit, unfortunately not gay?” Erestor asked – he had indulged in several satisfying fantasies starring Haldir, who was an infrequent sparring partner at his local training centre – distracted by Captain Holt on the TV holding two puppies.

Celebrían cooed – she was horribly allergic to pet dander, but loved dogs nonetheless – and continued, nearly choking on her own chortles, “Yes, him. Well, the director’s finally settled on lead vocalist – it’s Nimrodel, we saw her in that production of _By a Silver Stream_ – and she showed up to meet the rest of us today. Haldir was so star-struck he forgot about the orchestra pit and fell in!”

Infected by her bright laughter at the image, Erestor broke into full-bellied guffaws himself, only just managing not to spill food down his chest. “Oh dear,” he deadpanned, once the first mirth had dissipated, “I do hope our gallant knight-,” Haldir’s role in the play, “- isn’t terribly injured.”

“That’s the best part!” Bría wheezed. “Nimrodel’s understudy was down there, looking at the sheet-music… and she _caught him_ – literally _caught him_ , bridal style and everything.”

Erestor broke down, his dinner forgotten in favour of nearly crying with laughter at the idea of dainty Curulaeril carrying stocky broad Haldir across an imaginary threshold, complete with white veil and bridal crown.

“I – I wish them every happiness,” he chortled, raising his glass of water in a pretend wedding toast. Celebrían collapsed into the cushions, “May they have a long and happy life together.”

 

They passed the rest of the evening companionably, chatting about everything and nothing, and by the time he went to bed, Erestor felt somewhat optimistic that tomorrow’s outing would not be completely terrible. He liked _Elrond_ well enough, after all, and his brother couldn’t be a truly terrible person – even if he wouldn’t consider him as attractive as _don’t go there, Erestor_. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his hands over his face, trying to scrub away that blasted _smile_ from his mind.

The bright gold of Jerkface’s hair and the sweetness of his smile followed him into sleep, the rudeness momentarily forgotten in favour of a pleasant dream about kisses and ice cream.

 

* * *

 

 

Spotting Erestor leaving a Thai takeaway place, Glorfindel ducked behind a commercial-plastered pillar by the bus stop, peeking out from behind his sub-optimal shelter and drawing a sigh of relief when Erestor did not seem to have spotted him.

The suit jacket was gone, revealing the full effect of the waistcoat underneath, the tapered waist leading to an arse built for sinful thoughts in Glorfindel’s opinion, nearly hypnotized by the light sway of his hips, his shoulders flexing beneath the enticingly dark blue silk of the waistcoat, as Erestor continued down the street, the battered satchel Glorfindel had seen him carry the day before slung carelessly over one shoulder. Erestor looked skinny – although the roundness of that arse promised only good things – but he had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to just below his elbows, the white tips of the sleeves poking out like tiny wings, revealing a wiry lean strength to him, and Glorfindel had to check himself for escaping drool at the sight of those surprisingly muscular forearms.

The thought of the day before broke through Glorfindel’s ogling spell, remembering again the way that arm had been draped over the blonde’s shoulder, replaying the sound of Erestor’s happy laughter over and over in his mind.

Turning abruptly, accidentally scaring a passing old lady just to make himself feel like even more of a cad, Glorfindel stomped off, angry with himself.

_So what if he’s hot in a completely oblivious way? Maybe Gothmog was right… perhaps I just need to get him blown out of my mind._

Glorfindel sighed, pulling out the band and running a hand through his messy hair, scratching the back of his neck. The idea of calling any of the numbers that would probably have gained him a partner for some sensual gymnastics seemed wrong somehow; the worry that he’d be thinking about Erestor – imagining it was _Erestor_ moaning his name – was far too plausible.

Letting himself into the empty and messy flat, he gave up on cooking dinner, getting by on a bowl of yoghurt and muesli that did not feel even remotely satisfying compared to the scent coming from the Thai place that Erestor had frequented, and called Ecthelion.

“You’re moping, Glorfindel Lysild,” Ecthelion told him, once Glorfindel had finished the report on his idle day, the use of his full name meaning he was in Trouble. “I don’t know why you _always_ do this instantly falling in love thing.”

The distance across the Atlantic that the sound travelled did not diminish the weariness of his sigh. Glorfindel winced, but he didn’t have a good rebuttal – it wasn’t the first time he’d been instantly smitten with someone, though it somehow felt _different_ with Erestor…

“You’re only going to end up hurt,” Ecthelion continued softly, “didn’t you tell me this Erestor bloke has a _girlfriend_?” His voice was gentle but stern, reasonable in that annoying way he had that made it impossible to argue with his logic.

Glorfindel scowled at nothing, seeing again the familiarity of Erestor’s interactions with Ms Petite Embonpoint and refrained from stating – for the fourth time that night – that he had _not_ seen them _kiss_ , a thought that had occurred to him around 3 am the night before in a wave of dizzying hope.

On the other end of the call, Ecthelion sighed again, fond exasperation in his voice. “You should get some sleep, Findo,” he murmured, “you have classes tomorrow.”

“I can’t sleep, Ecto, _I can’t_ ,” Glorfindel whined, feeling pathetic and lonely. Ecthelion’s warm chuckle made him feel slightly better.

“Will it help if I play you five minutes of Brahm’s Lullaby?” he asked teasingly, rustling with his cello.

“…Yes.” He loved Ecto. Really. Even with the overbearing older brother vibe and the frankly stupid nicknames he used from time to time, Glorfindel couldn’t imagine a better friend.

Ecthelion played him ten, and Glorfindel fell asleep feeling a little more prepared for his second day of teaching.

 

 

The lips running down his chest, teasing kisses trailing over the planes made him sigh, pushing his fingers into that soft sleek hair as his body reacted, firming beneath skilful fingers. The lips turned into a smile, pressing softly against his nipple, fingers coming up to tweak the other with a flash of desire.

“Erestor…” he groaned, feeling his partner chuckle and obey the pressure of his hand, that glorious mouth moving ever downwards, pausing to lick into his navel and send shivers of lust up his spine. The hand that had been rubbing him slowly suddenly gained purpose, making his pants disappear in an instant and wrapping warmly around straining flesh. Ghosting kisses across his hip, sucking lightly on the spot that made him jump, those soft lips continued their journey. He wanted them elsewhere, but it felt too good to make him move, anticipation of that warmth – _wet, glorious, soft_ – making him buck into the circle of his fist.

“Yes, darling, just like that,” he whispered, moaning at the feel of his tongue running along that hard length, making him gasp out a name when it reached the tip, circling slowly. “Erestor!”

Glorfindel opened his eyes, staring into the empty darkness of his bedroom, the moan still hanging in the air.

He shouldn’t be hard at the mere thought of his smile, shouldn’t be thinking about what _he_ could do with that mouth – the way those arms would flex when Erestor moved, gripping him in his fist…

He was hot, _heavy_ in his palm, his mind still filled with images of Erestor’s pretty mouth and he _shouldn’t_ , it was _wrong_ …

But it felt so _right_.

_I should not be lusting after a taken man, should know better – but I am._

He was, and he was indulging himself, here, in the privacy of his own bed – _Erestor’s dark hair stretching across pale pillowcases_ – stroking his aching manhood beneath the covers as if that would hide the shame.

_I – I shouldn’t –_

_\- Eru, help me, I can’t stop._

Groaning, he sped of the motions of his hand – his own strong grasp, not Erestor’s – pumping himself roughly in punishment.

 _No,_ he thought, images of Erestor’s soft smile filling his head. _Erestor would be gentle, slow, he would tease…_ Glorfindel flushed hotly all over, throwing off the covers and straining to see in the low light of the moon through curtain-less windows.

As if to agree, his fist slowed down, grip loosening slightly. Glorfindel moaned, arching his back when his other hand moved down his body, following the path of the lips from his dream – down his chest, pinching a nipple, over his stomach, dipping into the ridges of his muscles and making him quiver with need, running across strong hairy thighs –

– until he cupped his heavy sac in his calloused hand, rolling his balls slowly.

Imagining that it was _his_ hands.

One stroking his shaft, one playing with his balls – slender fingers, but strong – just the way he liked it.

“ _Ai, Erestor!_ ” he moaned, too warm to feel the chill of his bedroom.

 _That mouth – oh, I would do_ sinful _things to that mouth – would give him a teasing smile, Erestor licking his lips…_

Throwing his head back, making the headboard rattle against the wall, Glorfindel rocked back and forth – trusting helplessly into his fist, wanting more and more _glorious_ friction. _Erestor_ –

He’d never before been this desperate for release. He wanted it to continue, wanted to feel this desire – this _craving_ – this burning ache – forever, but instinct was telling him to fuck as fast and hard as he could, imagining that he’s burying himself in Erestor’s tight –

“- _fuck!_ ” Glorfindel groaned, “Erestor, Eres- _fuck!_ Oh, yes – o-oh, baby, you’re so good, _yes_.”

Panting for breath, he squeezed tight round the base, trying to stave off the explosion, ride the high just a little bit longer.

 _Not yet_.

Torturing himself with images of Erestor’s arse, so round and, _oh, it’d be tight and_ warm _and willing_ , Glorfindel tried to slow down.

He wanted to enjoy this.

_It’s so wrong._

_But it feels so good._

_Feels_ right _._

Releasing a slow breath, he moaned Erestor’s name into the darkness, slumping against the pillows even as his hips flexed and jumped, fucking into his fist.

“E-Ere _stor_!” he moaned deeply, knowing that he wouldn’t last much longer when his fist sped up without orders, breathing heavily through his nose as all focus narrowed down to two points.

He stroked up – hard – swirling his thumb across the leaking tip – his fist is slick and slippery, tight and warm as he could only imagine _he_ would be, watching that arse spread for him, filling his ears with the sounds of Erestor’s pleasure.

_I’d fuck him senseless._

_Or maybe I’d just bury my face in that arse, see if I could make him cum on my tongue… listen to the way he screams my name when he comes undone._ My _name._

A thread of jealousy twisted his heart, his breathing deep like he’d run _miles_ , trying to hold on to fantasies he knew would never come true. _Erestor wouldn’t_ -

\- but Glorfindel was much too far gone to stop now; visions of Erestor’s long dark hair swaying as he took him from behind competing with images of stuffing that mouth full, of taking Erestor as far down his own throat as he could – of, of –

He squeezed his thick cock up and down, his hips undulating wildly as he lost control, surrendering to the burning desire in his veins.

“Ai, ai , Erestor, E – F – Fuck – .”

His arms ached with tension, but Glorfindel didn’t care, feeling nothing but the waves of pleasure flowing inside him, flowing up from his balls with each thrust he made into his fist.

His cock hardened impossibly, his sac drawing up tight and then –

Release.

Blinding white light – _pure pleasure_ – mingling with sparks of heat that set his blood afire. 

White gobs of cum burst from his throbbing cock to land like pearls across his chest, painting streaks of white over his belly and thighs.

For a moment, he just lay there, basking in the pleasure, stroking lazily as his cock sputtered out the last remnants of pleasure, savouring the floaty feeling of bliss like it should never touch him again.

Opening his eyes, not quite sure when they had shut, Glorfindel looked down at himself.

Guilt flooded him, bringing with it a sense of shame that threatened to wipe out any memory of pleasure, streaks of white rapidly cooling on his skin.

Reaching for his discarded shirt, he wiped himself off, tossing the soiled garment towards the laundry basket. He could still feel it, sticking to him with the memory of Erestor’s perfect arse filling out those slacks.

Scrubbing his hands over his eyes, Glorfindel groaned.

_He’s not mine – and never will be. Get it together, Glorfindel._

He still wanted to do it again.


	3. The Wicked Games of the Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three at Mindon, and the weekend is fast approaching.

Friday morning, Glorfindel skipped breakfast in favour of showing up at the secretary’s desk bright and early, charming his way into obtaining the previously offered map of campus and a cup of coffee. Mindon was a confusing place with its white spires, tall hedges, and winding pathways – including several covered walkways fifty feet above ground or higher – spanning the gaps between the white towers that housed the lecture halls and professorial offices of collective ‘Schools of Purpose’.

The spires and the green gardens were not the most confusing feature of Mindon’s star-shaped campus, however – _that_ honour belonged to what could only be described as a warren of corridors and tunnels stretching for miles beneath ground level. While the ground floors of the towers usually held lecture halls and auditoriums, the tunnels were used for smaller class rooms, and the farther up a spire your office was, the more senior a professor you were. The only Spire where that logic did not hold sway was the Spire of Starlight, which housed astronomy and astrophysics, but – as the friendly secretary had informed him on his first tour – they were considered simply odd in that manner and best left to their stargazing.

Glorfindel taught in Mindon Teciéo, the Spire of Writing, which housed the literary and social sciences, at the north end of campus. As he made his way towards the Teciéo, he slowed his steps, hoping to bump into Erestor again – he had spent most of his morning shower thinking about the man which had not helped his sexual frustrations but had convinced him that a heartfelt apology was a good step one in trying to mend fences with the Professor.

Erestor was nowhere to be found.

Glorfindel gave up stalking the hallways with five minutes to spare before his first class of the day, ‘Theories of Deviance’ an advanced course looking at social causes and consequences of delinquency and other deviant behaviour. It always made him feel a level of wry amusement when he saw the title of that class, considering that his own inclinations had been considered deviant – were still thought so, in some parts of the world – and now he was _teaching_ about deviant behaviours.

 

 

Erestor regretted his teasing from the night before almost before he walked into Bría’s favourite department store, the fortifying Noldorin coffee and fluffy breakfast roll they had retrieved from Foresta d’Oro on the way not enough to remove his sense of dread. Celebrían was his best friend, and he didn’t really _mind_ spending time with her in shops, usually better at spotting things that would suit her than _she_ was. The bad thing about going shopping with a woman, in Erestor’s opinion, was other people; specifically the looks he got from other customers, a mix of ‘ _I pity you for being a hen-pecked boyfriend_ ’, commiserating glances – less frequent on a Friday morning, admittedly – from bored-looking husbands, or – and they were almost worse – the looks he received from the flamboyantly gay crowd that did not at all match his idea of the ideal partner but seemed determined to chat him up nonetheless until he was forced to seek refuge in pretend-heterosexuality to escape.

He wanted someone reasonably smart, athletic – he did both martial arts and yoga himself several times a week – and confident – but not… loud, was the word, perhaps – enough in his own sexuality that he didn’t need to scream it at the world; the end result often felt like they were trying to convince _themselves_ of their sexuality, after all, which was not at all a turn-on. His first real boyfriend – and still the yardstick against whom everyone else was measured – had been all that, and remained a good friend to this day, even if they both knew they worked better as friends than lovers. Celegorm was away with work three quarters of the year, however, and Erestor wanted someone rather more present than that. No one matching that description ever seemed to be looking for _him_ , however, and so Erestor had gone on several dates with people he found less than ideal until the disappointment in his own picky nature had made him give up on dating entirely about a year before.

 

Currently, he was hoping against hope that Celebrían would call for him from the changing room, giving him an excuse to leave the odious company of someone clearly convinced he was Eru’s gift to Mankind, and unaccustomed to understanding the meaning of the word ‘no’. Erestor had no such luck, although when he went to slap the man’s hand away from his thigh, he spotted salvation over his shoulder in the form of a familiar black head of hair scouting the store.

“Darling!” he exclaimed loudly. “There you are!”

Jumping past Mr Insistent before he was tempted to break every bone in his fingers, Erestor took three long steps, wrapping his arms around Elrond’s neck.

“Play along, please, El,” he breathed, leaning in and pressing his lips against Elrond’s surprised mouth, feeling his arms wrap around his back, making the kiss look more like a meeting of eager lovers than a surprise attack. Erestor smiled into the kiss. Elrond really was a good guy; introducing him to Bría had surely been his best idea ever.

Behind him, Bría cleared her throat. Erestor tensed slightly, pulling away from Elrond’s soft lips.

“Should I be worried about you making out with my twin brother, Erestor?” Elrond asked wryly, making Erestor whirl around, staring confusedly between the two identical men.

“Uhm…” he tried, blushing hard. “I thought he was you?”

“I didn’t mind, Rondo,” Elros – it had to be Elros – laughed, “it seemed he – Erestor was it? – needed a hand getting rid of an unwanted suitor…”

Erestor nodded dumbly. Bría broke down laughing.

“Your face…!” she wheezed, holding on to Elrond to keep from falling over.

Erestor’s lips twitched, and suddenly all of them were laughing.

“Yes…” he muttered, getting himself back under control and pushing his glasses back up his nose, turning to look sheepishly at Elros. “Nice to, err… nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, too, Erestor,” Elros smiled, shaking it warmly.

“We actually came to see if we could catch you for lunch,” Elrond revealed, patting Celebrían’s shoulder, trying to still her chortles.

Erestor smiled, shrugging at his best friend – he was used to Bría’s laughing spells, there really wasn’t anything to do until she stopped. “Lunch sounds good,” he admitted, feeling the embarrassed flush sticking to his skin, until he looked at his watch and realised that he was meant to be at the University sharpish, “but I’ll have to take a rain check, Elrond, I have work0 to get to.” Keeping careful distance to Elros, Erestor accepted a friendly hug from Elrond and a giggly kiss on the cheek from Celebrían. Walking towards the exit, he did not turn around, keeping a firm grip on his self-control to avoid running his fingers agitatedly through his carefully plaited hair. It might not be the _most_ mortifying experience of his life, but kissing Elros certainly ranked up there – no matter how nice he’d been about it afterwards.

Erestor hoped his blush would have died by the time he got to the restaurant where they were meant to have dinner, though he doubted he’d be that lucky.

Crossing the lawn surrounding the Teciéo – the Mindon Teciéo, the Tower of Writing – Erestor wove in and out of the young people soaking up sun on the verdant lawns, absentmindedly waving a greeting at Lindir in passing though he did not stop until he reached the large doors, carved with symbolic imagery of the disciplines taught within this specific tower.

Throwing the paper that had been wrapped around the burrito he’d bought on the way into the conveniently located bin, he continued swiftly down the corridor, trying – and failing – not to be upset about the morning’s encounters. The Elros thing – while embarrassing – was something he’d be able to laugh at eventually, but the former kind of outright harassment seemed to be happening more and more lately.

He was so lost in his own head, trying to figure out what he was doing to make such boorish blokes believe that touching him uninvited was in any way okay, that he didn’t pay any attention to the world around him, his feet continuing down the usual path towards his office without conscious control from his brain.

 

 

Glorfindel quite liked teaching, he’d realised. Sociology might not be much like training soldiers for combat – and he didn’t _have_ to shout at his students, which was a welcome change, too – but it felt good to teach something that used his mind more than his body. The fact that no one was likely to get killed pursuing anything related to what he had taught them was a bonus, though he carefully did not think about the parallels between his young students here and the brave and bright-eyed cadets he had trained in the army.

Waving off the last of his class – they had been continuing the discussion from his lecture in smaller groups – he smiled to himself, feeling buoyed by the appetite for learning they’d shown him. Optimistically, he decided to seek out the cafeteria for lunch, feeling only slightly let down by the selection but eventually settling on a chicken sandwich – they weren’t stingy on the meat, at least – though he returned to the Teciéo as soon as he had finished eating, admiring the murals on the walls – Noldorin mosaics, mostly – a strict geometric swirl of coloured stone that somehow created images in the corner of his eye, disappearing when he looked directly at them. He was walking slowly down the hallway leading back to his office – he had office hours for the rest of the afternoon – when he caught sight of Erestor walking towards him, looking perturbed.

Reshaping his face into a friendly smile – Ecto was right, he had to man up and apologise – he stopped to let the other man catch up.

“Hello Professor Cummings,” he began, holding out his hand, “I’m afraid we got off rather on the wrong foot the other day and I want to apologise for my rudeness.” Taking a deep breath once he’d forced all of his hastily composed apology out, Glorfindel closed his eyes and waited for Erestor’s judgement.

He did not expect the slighter man to literally walk into him.

 

 

“Ow.”

Erestor’s glasses pressed uncomfortably against his brow bone, making him pull away from the sinfully soft fabric he had been pressed against. Suddenly brought back to the world, Erestor blinked, his sore nose still filled with the pleasant scent of cologne, staring at the beautiful specimen of a man he’d just rammed into. Golden hair tumbling over strong shoulders hidden – but at the same time perfectly outlined – by a blue polo-shirt, a chiselled jaw with just a hint of tawny blonde stubble led his eyes up to a perfect cheekbone marred by the red mark his collision had left on… Professor Jerkface.

_He’s so gorgeous – even more up close… remember that he’s an arse, Esto, and your crush WILL go away soon._

Telling himself that did not make the blonde less handsome, of course, or make him _less_ aware of the warm hands gripping his upper arms.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry,” Erestor stammered, mind blank, “I wasn’t… looking where I was going.” He was blushing fiercely now, cursing the tendency he’d inherited from his father, feeling even more warm than when he’d realised it wasn’t _Elrond_ who had rescued him from Sir-Grabs-a-Lot.

Licking his lips nervously, he was both glad and saddened when Mr Gorgeous Jerkface let go of his arms, clearing his throat slightly.

“Call it even for my idiocy the other day?” he asked, offering up another of those blinding smiles that made Erestor’s poor heart want to forget about their first meeting entirely to bask in its warmth. “Start over?”

He was standing much too close for comfort, and though _his_ touch had been steadying, not even close to the groping fingers he’d escaped earlier, Erestor felt a light shudder pass through him, taking half a step back. He nodded tersely.

“Great!” Mr Nice-Smile exclaimed, holding out his hand. “I’m Glorfindel Lysild, assistant lecturer of Sociology.”

Reluctantly, Erestor shook it, still wanting a long hot bath to scrub away the memory of a different man’s hand. Glorfindel’s hand was nice, his grip firm but not crushing, his hands lightly calloused – like Elrond’s, almost, a distant part of Erestor decided – and he kept smiling that stupidly nice smile.

Pulling away for his own sanity, Erestor gave him another terse nod. “Professor Cummings, Literature,” he replied in a clipped tone, too perturbed to care about politeness, “Good day to you, Mr Lysild.” Hoisting his satchel back up onto his shoulder, Erestor moved around Glorfindel, keeping carefully distant and sped off down the corridor.

 _At least my hair covers my neck_ , he thought, _he won’t see my blushes_.

 

 

Staring after Erestor’s ramrod straight spine, Glorfindel felt his heart sink in his chest. The man _might_ have accepted his hand, but he’d obviously been uncomfortable beyond the slight embarrassment of walking into another person. And still there had been that first moment, when Glorfindel caught him bouncing back from the smack to the face – his cheekbone felt slightly sore from the metal corner of Erestor’s frames – when he had _thought_ he saw a flash of desire… No, Ecto was right – he shouldn’t have got his hopes up. Forgetting everything about Erestor would be better for his sanity, surely.

With a heaving sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to rub away the feeling of Erestor’s arms under his fingers and left Teciéo. Wandering through the beautiful gardens that comprised much of the Mindon campus, Glorfindel failed to distract himself from the way Erestor’s tongue had darted across his lips, leaving them glistening invitingly. Imagining the way that thin bottom lip would plump up from his kisses or the sight of those red lips stretched around his cock, Erestor’s grey-green eyes looking up at him with pure lust did his trousers absolutely no favours; by the time he reached the shop closest to home, Glorfindel was in a foul mood.

 

 

Office hours had never seemed interminable before, but Erestor’s thoughts kept circling around and around and getting nowhere until at last it was time to leave. Elrond had dashed off to the Hospital to assist on a terribly interesting emergency procedure – _at least, Elrond had called it terribly interesting, though Erestor had decided to ignore the vivid detail of his description for the sake of keeping his lunch down_ – so it would just be him, Bría and Elros for dinner, a prospect that did not exactly fill Erestor with confidence, particularly because he couldn’t stop imagining – _… Glorfindel was his name_ – in place of Elros earlier, wondering if those plump kissable lips were as soft as they had looked up close.

At the end of the day, Erestor could only consider himself lucky that there had been no students needing him; he prided himself on being approachable and serious with his students, and his current daze was certainly neither of those things.

When he finally left Teciéo, he kept ruthlessly focused on the path before him, nearly stalking along in his haste to arrive at the serenity of his weekend – going out for dinner would at least distract him from thoughts about running his fingers down Glorfindel’s chest – and arrived home much sooner than expected. Bría was still in the shower, for one, and so he poured himself a deserved highball of juice with a healthy splash of rum and ginger beer added, sipping the cocktail slowly as he waited for her to emerge and free up the bathroom.

He sternly ignored his cock in the shower, no matter how much it begged for release, sending him pleasing flashes of Glorfindel’s face and those strong hands wrapped around his arms – and _elsewhere_.

Getting dressed smartly, paying a sincere compliment to Bría who blushed prettily and slipped on a low pair of heels, Erestor set off with determination, the story of the rest of his day spilling from him as they walked towards the small cosy restaurant she had chosen.

As always, Bría’s amused comments and commiseration made him feel better, her varied stories of stage mishaps and theatre anecdotes lifting his spirits.

Perhaps he would see this Glorfindel – he quite liked the taste of the name on his tongue, trying not to imagine moaning it into appreciative ears – after the weekend, see if today’s awkward but gracious person was the real Glorfindel rather than the frat-boy-like Professor Jerkface. Erestor felt optimistic about his crush for the first time in a week, replaying the glimmer of interest he thought he’d seen in those ocean-blue eyes the first time he saw Glorfindel.

 

Of course, because Vairë would never weave him a pleasant end to his first week of teaching, the first thing Glorfindel saw leaving the shop, groceries in hand and wondering if he really had spent hours walking around campus without realising, was _Erest – Professor Cummings_. Walking along the pavement on the other side of the street, hands gesticulating widely, his face animated with mirth, and all his smiles aimed at _her_.

Glorfindel felt a sharp pain pierce his heart, only growing sharper by the way Erestor dropped a fond kiss on her cheek, the two of them obviously heading out somewhere nice by the look of their clothes.

For a long moment, Glorfindel followed them down the street with his eyes, drinking in the sight of Erestor looking so delicious he wanted nothing more than to mess up that hair – or fall to his knees and enjoy the vision of him looming over him, offering Erestor his mouth – but then he shook himself harshly. Giving his poor heart a stern reminder, Glorfindel grabbed his bag of groceries and walked back into the store, leaving with a bottle of vodka and some limes in a new bag.

Calling Ecto and then getting _very_ drunk seemed in order.


	4. A Touch of Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our intrepid (or not?) heroes meet again... And Ecthelion is both a Troll and a Good Bro.

Glorfindel woke up to find a text from Ecto waiting on his phone, picturing a haphazardly cut star made of what looked like tinfoil painted with stripes of gold nail polish and the words ‘Thou hath made a valiant effort’ scrawled across it in what looked like dark red lipstick. He scowled at the mocking image – Ecto should not be allowed near crafts supplies when drunk, nor exposed to memes _at all_ – but had to laugh at the next picture showing Ecto holding the star, members of the orchestra all aiming thumbs up in the camera’s direction – most of them holding glasses of unidentifiable but certainly alcoholic beverages. Along with the pictures was a drunkenly misspelled text telling him ‘good luck forgetting!’ – at least, that’s what Glorfindel eventually decided his best friend had meant to write.

With that somewhat less than auspicious start to his day, Glorfindel set to the task given him with all the purpose of a person who knows that they brought their hangover upon themselves.

Public transport was exactly the kind of punishment he deserved for his indulgence, Glorfindel thought, scowling at the small child who kept bumping him with its backpack. The older sibling most likely meant to keep an eye on the younger one had their nose buried in their phone and Glorfindel’s scowl went unnoticed by anyone but the little old lady he’d given up his seat to, giving him a sympathetic glance and a small smile.

Getting off at his old regular stop with a sigh of relief, he slowly made his way aboveground, hoisting the duffel bag carrying his boxing equipment and sportswear higher onto his shoulder. Ecto was not around for sparring, and he didn’t feel like checking out that dojo he’d found when he was already miserable, preferring to keep it a spot of bright possibility rather than the inevitable let-down it was doomed to be in his current state of mind.

“Golden boy!” Gothmog greeted, smiling far too sunnily for such a gloomy Saturday in Glorfindel’s opinion. “Here to get your arse kicked?”

“Not today, Mug-face,” he returned flippantly, making the giant man laugh a deep belly laugh and clap him on the shoulder, “just here for the cardio.” Glorfindel’s long exposure to Gothmog’s array of greetings – he didn’t _mean_ to be violent, really – meant he did not flinch or stagger at the impact.

Gothmog grinned broadly. “Well, if you change your mind, we’ve a newcomer to put through his paces – bit twiggy, if’n you ask me, and his face reminds me of someone... Fuck, you remember that old LT from basic, what-was-his-name... Eöl!”

Glorfindel frowned, spotting a young man in the corner, looking slightly more than apprehensive – downright terrified, in truth – at the thought that he might be fighting _The Fist_ himself. Glorfindel tried to give him a friendly smile, but he was fairly sure the young man did not see it.

"I don't see it," he muttered, "looks a bit scared, though. What's his name?"

“Maeglin... something," Gothmog glanced down at the sign-up sheet on his clipboard, "meh, can't read it. Oh, well. If he comes back after today I'll get him to redo the log. Maybe he's studying medicine."

Glorfindel gave him half a smile for the joke, strapping his hands carefully. "Well, if he _is_... I wouldn't think _boxing_ was the sport to pick... You sure he's not looking for yoga-classes?" Glorfindel smirked, Gothmog's infectious laughter bringing a small smile to his face.

"Reckon I can bend him in two if that's what he's after, fer sure," Gothmog mumbled, laughing loudly and delivering another teeth-rattling smack to his shoulder, before he sauntered over towards the new recruit whose apprehension only seemed to spike.

Glorfindel shook his head lightly. Gothmog wouldn’t hurt the guy – not really – but telling newcomers that they’d be facing him in the rings was a good way to sort out who actually wanted to be there. Maeglin did not seem like he’d be coming back, in Glorfindel’s opinion, but he ignored the rest of their session, taping up his hands and putting on his gloves, trying to reach the place of serenity in his mind that only _really_ good sex or proper physical exhaustion brought him. He tried to imagine the punching bag having Erestor’s face, but it kept getting superimposed with his _girlfriend’s_ and that was a step further towards violent psycho than Glorfindel was comfortable taking – the girl was more than a foot shorter than him, to begin with, and had a very pretty smile to boot; if she _hadn’t_ been involved with Erestor, he’d have considered her cute, maybe even tried to get her to go out with Ecthelion when he returned. He liked short blondes – and redheads – and brunettes – and, really, Ecto’s type could be summed up in short and pretty, gender unimportant.

 

When he left the gym, even more amused by the way tiny Maeglin seemed to be crawling all over Gothmog – someone was definitely going to get laid there – like a cat in heat, Glorfindel felt slightly less hungover. Step one of his Forget-Erestor’s-perfect-arse-plan complete.

 

* * *

 

 

Leaving their Saturday morning yoga class in high spirits, Erestor and Celebrían walked through the park, chatting amiably and sipping something she _claimed_ was a health smoothie.

“These had better be as good for me as you claim,” Erestor groused, pulling on his straw and grimacing, “because I’m thinking you simply blended up parts of your father’s compost heap – why couldn’t it taste like strawberries?!”

Bría laughed, nudging him with her elbow. “ _Very_ healthy, Esto,” she teased, “lots of kale and things – meant to improve your stamina!”

“My stamina is _fine_ , thank you,” Erestor groused back, finishing his drink with a shudder, “and it’s not like I have a need to improve it for anyone’s sake, either.”

“You’ll have a head-start when you finally land Mr Right, then,” Bría smiled cheekily, finishing her own smoothie and failing to repress her own shudder at the taste, “or at least Mr Right-Now – like that guy,” she added, nodding at a tall slim blond a few metres ahead.

Erestor flushed, his mind replacing the slender build in front of him with Glorfindel’s far more pleasing bulk.

“Or maybe you _have_ ,” Bría added teasingly, “feeling a bit hot for teacher, Esto?” Giving him a cheeky wink, she waved at Elrond and his twin.

“You _promised_ not to make that joke,” Erestor said, hiding his bright red face in his hands, “it’s JUST a crush, Bría, let it go. I don’t even know if I really like him!”

“Alright, alright,” she soothed, “but you have to join us for lunch today – _after_ we go home for a shower, yes, Esto, I’m not daft – in return.”

Erestor sighed, feeling very put-upon. Bría’s smile widened. “Fine,” he hissed, plastering on a sunny smile for Elrond and Elros – the similar names were just _weird_ , no way around it – when they came in range, “but not another word.”

“Scout’s honour!” Bría promised sunnily.

“You were never _in_ the Scouts!” Erestor cried exasperatedly, bursting into laughter at the sight of her comically waggling eyebrows.

“The point stands,” Celebrían huffed, pulling down her boyfriend for a deep kiss, “I call first shower!”

Erestor groaned.

 

* * *

 

 

It had been four whole days since he’d seen Erestor, and Glorfindel was feeling good about his living-in-denial-phase as he wandered through the covered walkway connecting the Mindon Eldaliéva – the central spire that housed the massive Mindon Library – to the Teciéo, enjoying the sound of laughter drifting up from the groups of students soaking up the sunshine far below. In winters, he’d been told, the walkways were closed off with glass-paned windows, but in the warmer months the windows were left open to the playful breezes.

Stopping at the midpoint of the arch, he looked out the window, seeing the peaceful sprawl of the campus, verdant lawns dotted with blankets and lounging students – an image of peace that had once been wholly inconceivable to him.

The sound hit him first, and he had already dropped below the edge of the window when the force of the blast rattled the glass lightly, the sound and sensation rippling across his mind magnified tenfold.

Fingers trembling, heart pounding. Lungs breathing air filled with dust and ash, the smell of blood and burning gasoline in his nose.

A scream, turning to more, turning to men dying, the fire crackling, and no more than a quiet whimper escaping him as his mind and body went back in time to the worst day of his life:

“Ecto… help me…”

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor was hurrying towards the Library to pick up a new text for his Wednesday evening book club, when he heard the loud boom of a chrysanthemum bomb, followed by a frightened shriek. Shaking his head, he continued along the walkway – fireworks were only to be expected this time of year, young people letting off any steam they had not released during the many summer parties.

At first, he thought it was a student, sitting with his back towards the wall, his head pressed firmly against his knees and arms locked tight around them, curling himself into a ball. Then he recognised the hair.

“…Glorfindel?” he asked, worry letting the name slip past the veneer of polite collegial distance common among staff at Mindon.

“Ecto…” the other professor whispered, not looking up, and Erestor could see him shaking.

“Are you… what’s going on?” he said, moving closer and kneeling slowly before Glorfindel.

“Ecto, help – panic,” Glorfindel gasped, hyperventilating and staring straight through him.

Erestor studied him for a moment, thinking rapidly; he had seen something like this, when his mother was struck by panic attacks brought on by her experiences in war, seen his father calm her down. _Was Glorfindel in the forces, too, or is he having a medical emergency? No, he distinctly said panic…_ The thoughts flashed through his mind, but the words that escaped his mouth were soft and gentle. “The explosion earlier…” he murmured with the euphoric feeling of epiphany and relief mingled together when Glorfindel nodded. “Can I help you?” he wondered, leaving the question of the identity of ‘Ecto’ for later.

“Talk,” Glorfindel managed between gasps for air.

“Alright,” Erestor said gently, “I want you to listen to my voice, now Glorfindel.” Pausing, he was not surprised by the lack of response. _Father said to be calm, be slow, and keep her breathing… Eru, please be right._ “Try to breathe with me, yes, follow the sound of my voice.” Breathing deeply, he forced himself to remain calm, timing his breaths out loud, “In… out… In… out… you’re doing well, Glorfindel… breathe in… and out…”

Breathing seemed to help a little, and Erestor dared to say something else: “Can you look at me, Glorfindel?”

“Ecto,” he replied, but he raised his head, hands visibly shaking as he made a grab for Erestor’s hands, clutching tightly.

“Well done, Glorfindel.” Erestor smiled at him, feeling those strong fingers squeeze his own with some relief. _He’s not completely lost… so far._ “Keep breathing with me,” he added, “in… out… in… out…”

“Ecto…” Glorfindel mumbled, still staring at something only he could see and squeezing Erestor’s hands. Erestor’s heart squeezed, wondering who this Ecto-bloke was.

“Just breathe with me, alright, Glorfindel?” he said, squeezing back and giving Glorfindel his best smile.

“Eres…tor?” Glorfindel wondered softly, eyes slightly more alert and still breathing in sync. “Where… Ecto…?” He looked so confused Erestor’s heart broke for him, feeling that he might have been better served by the obviously familiar comfort of Ecto’s presence. “Safe?”

“I promise, we’re both safe,” Erestor swore fervently, cursing any and all people who ever thought setting off fireworks on campus was a grand lark – no matter how traditional! “I’m right here with you, Glorfindel,” he soothed, forcing his own anxiety to stay away by focusing on both their breathing.

“Ecto?” Glorfindel repeated, still looking a bit lost, the hyperventilating slow to recede.

Erestor bit back his relieved sigh. “Can I call Ecto for you?” he asked, not really daring to reach for his phone.

“Ecto he-ps,” Glorfindel choked out, his breathing still not quite _normal_. One hand let go of its death-grip on Erestor’s fingers, fumbling a phone out of his pocket but failing to unlock it. “Em’ncy.” Stuttering, he stared at Erestor as though trying to make him understand telepathically.

“He’s your emergency contact?” Erestor asked gently.

Glorfindel nodded once.

“Can I try?” Erestor added, taking the feeble push at the phone as permission. Picking up the phone with his non-dominant hand, catching the flash of desperation that crossed those blue eyes when he let go of Glorfindel’s hand. “Keep breathing with me now,” he said, attempting to find the emergency setting on Glorfindel’s phone – and thanking Eru and whoever ruled over whims of technological advancing that he had no need to unlock it – which contained only one number: Ecthelion.

The sound of it ringing – setting it on speaker freed up his hand for Glorfindel to take again – seemed to go on forever until a sleepy voice responded at last.

“Hiya Glowstick,” he said, “you do know it’s long past midnight here, yes?”

“Ecto…” Glorfindel whimpered, nearly crushing Erestor’s fingers.

“This is Erestor Cummings, calling from Mindon University,” Erestor said, noting the tremor in his own voice. “Are you… Ecto?”

“O, fuck!” Ecto replied, suddenly sounding far more alert, “what’s wrong with him?!”

“I think it’s a panic attack, brought on by a surprise fireworks explosion,” Erestor said, trying to avert the panic he could nearly feel reverberating through the phone and silence the small voice that told him exactly who this Ecthelion was to Glorfindel, making him feel a sharp spike of black jealousy. “He’s still not quite with me-”

“Ah – fuck, the cello’s gone, argh!” Ecthelion exclaimed, interrupting Erestor by dropping his phone; nothing but rustling came through for a moment, Erestor’s continued breathing coaching not drowning out the light twangs of one instrument or another.

“Pay attention now, Findo, yeah?” Ecthelion’s clear voice sounded once more, “I’m going to play you something on this here flute and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

Glorfindel nodded, still staring at Erestor. Erestor squeezed his hands encouragingly, smiling gently as he tried not to get lost in those blue eyes.

The soft sound of a flute filled the small bubble of space around them, and Erestor felt the way that grip loosened, blood returning to his fingers with a tingling sensation as Glorfindel’s body slowly left the panic attack. A few trembles remained in his sturdy frame, eyes falling shut as he listened to Ecthelion on the phone, focusing on the music, but never fully letting go of Erestor’s hands. He continued breathing slow and deep, sagging heavily against the wall behind him.

“It’s… twinkle twinkle little star,” he breathed shakily, eyes suddenly flashing open, “oh, _you fucker_.” But he was smiling, even though he looked annoyed, too. Erestor felt a little lost. It was a nice and simple song, and it had obviously worked, helping Glorfindel all the way back to reality.

From the phone, the flute continued a few bars longer, before Ecthelion’s light laugh came through clearly. “It seemed appropriate, Findo, hmm?” Then it changed, losing some of the lightness. “You need me to come home early, sweets?” he asked, “Or will you be okay for the rest of the week?”

Glorfindel groaned, letting go of Erestor’s fingers to scrub his palms against his face, a light flush painting red across his cheekbones.

“There’s no need for you to leave early, Ecto,” he sighed, “I was just…. Taken by surprise.”

“If you’re sure,” Ecthelion replied, and Erestor could almost hear the frown in his voice. “But you haven’t had a panic attack in over a year now – maybe I should come home…”

“Don’t worry about me, Ecto,” Glorfindel replied, “you’re playing for the Parliament of Umbar tomorrow, worry about _that_.”

“Pfft, parliament, smarliament,” Ecthelion said, and now both of them were smiling, Glorfindel’s face transforming into a picture of softness that made Erestor want to strangle this _Ecto_.

“Oh,” Glorfindel said, staring at him as though he hadn’t truly registered Erestor’s presence till then, “ _Erestor_ – err, Professor Cummings, I mean.” Blushing wildly, which should not be so cute – and considering _his boyfriend_ was listening, should not make Erestor want to kiss him – Glorfindel looked around, snatching up his phone to keep his hands busy.

“You’re more important,” Ecthelion added, “call me if you need to. _I mean it_.”

“Aww, I love you too,” Glorfindel chuckled. Erestor felt his heart drop down through his stomach, the small voice in his head going ‘ _told you he was taken – told you so_ ’ in an annoyingly persistent tone that seemed impossible to drown out. “Go to bed.”

“If you say so, Glowstick,” Ecthelion yawned. “Love ya.”

Putting down the phone, that smile still lingering on his face, Glorfindel sighed softly, leaning back against the wall.

 “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” Erestor asked, bouncing back onto his heels. The blond was still the most handsome man he’d ever seen, even though he currently looked like something even the cat would refuse to drag in.

Glorfindel gave him a weak smile, nodding.

“I’m fine – or I will be – really, it’s just… Who sets off bombs in a school anyway?!” Running his hands through his hair and obviously slightly embarrassed to look at Erestor – _did he notice my crush?_ Erestor felt a drop of sweat run down his spine at the thought – Glorfindel gestured towards the windows. “I hope no one was hurt…”

“Fireworks,” Erestor corrected gently, “a simple piece of fireworks – today is Fëanor Day at Mindon, you know? The inventor of fireworks?” he flushed slightly, “It’s part of Noldorin Week – didn’t you get the memo about the ball on Saturday?”

“…ball?” Glorfindel repeated, staring at him.

Erestor nodded. “Noldor Gala,” he said, “we have it every year – you must have been told; you’re a member of staff… it’s black tie.”

“I think I remember something about a ball…” Glorfindel’s forehead wrinkled in thought. He shrugged.

Erestor felt himself flush at the thought of those shoulders filling out a perfectly cut suit, his mouth watering for a moment before his newfound knowledge washed over him like a bucket of ice water emptied into his soul.

“Yes, there’s fancy food, and dancing – I mean, usually I go with Bría,” he babbled, “but her musical opens on Friday and she’s a lead role, so I’ll be going stag this year-”

“We could go together?” Glorfindel asked, flushing. “I mean, I- I don’t really know many people here yet, you could show me around.”

“Sure!” Erestor replied brightly, immediately regretting his words. _That smile could be weaponized. It should be illegal._ “Uhm…” casting about for a different subject and feeling a need to simply _flee_ , “can I bring you somewhere else? I mean, err…” Getting to his feet, he held out a hand to Glorfindel.

“In case I have another episode, you mean,” Glorfindel said shortly, accepting the hand up. “No – thank you, Professor Cummings, but I’ll be fine – I know there might be fireworks coming, now, I won’t be caught by surprise again.”

“You… you can call me Erestor!” Erestor blurted, cursing himself in the next moment when that bright smile filled him with warmth once more.

“Erestor…” Glorfindel said, the sound of his own name never before that sexy, running down the length of his spine like warm honey, “thank you.”

Erestor wanted to taste it from his lips, the desire overriding the voice. Closing his eyes, he rocked back onto his heels, shocked from his daze by the sound of his own phone ringing.

“…Bría?” Erestor asked, no idea if he should curse or bless her for her sense of timing. “Hold on, sweets, what’s wrong? Is Daeron mean to you?” The composer/director was inarguably brilliant, but he had once called Celegorm an barbarous backwoods buffoon, and Erestor’s sense of loyalty wouldn’t allow him to truly warm to Daeron’s somewhat acerbic – _annoyingly funny, too_ – personality.

Glorfindel picked up his bag, giving Erestor a small wave and a smile that made his bones liquid before continuing along the walkway.

Erestor sighed into his phone. “Of course, I’ll come watch rehearsals – I promise I’ll even bring popcorn to pelt Haldir when he gets his lines wrong for staring at Curulaeril like a besotted fool.” Listening to her laughter, he watched Glorfindel’s perfect backside move away from him.

_Which possibly makes two of us… stop ogling the taken bloke, Erestor, seriously – fuck this is worse than a simple crush!_

“I don’t care what Daeron says,” he added grumpily, forcing his eyes away from those tight buns in dark jeans and almost breathing a sigh of relief when Glorfindel disappeared through the door at the end of the walkway, “Haldir’s blocking is still terrible – much worse than his usual Pre-Opening-Night-Nerves. I’m on my way. I need a laugh, anyway.”

 _How did I just land the hottest professor as my_ date _to The Ball of the bloody season in Tirion?? … not ‘date’ Erestor, dammit, he has a boyfriend. Once more for those in the back row: He Has A Boyfriend. Who Is Nice and Plays Music To Important Bloody People… fuck. I bet_ Ecthelion _is just as good-looking as Glorfindel, too!_

Scowling at himself, Erestor whirled around, stalking off towards the central spire, even though he had forgotten why he was heading over there in the first place. _I haven’t even got a new shirt to wear, either_ , he thought, _just great_. Looking at his watch, he realised that it had been less than an hour since he left his office, but his usual tailor – Celegorm’s older brother, known to friends as Moryo – would have closed by now, so he’d have to call for an emergency fitting on Friday morning. _How is this my life._ _Just… fuck. I am so fucked. Or, rather, not-fucked. Damn. No, don’t go there-!_

Dazed by the idea of dancing with Glorfindel – valiantly forcing his imagination to stick to the comparably _innocent_ image of dancing – Erestor continued on his way, wondering how one literature professor could fuck up his own sanity _that_ much in such a short amount of time.

 


	5. Minor revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 & 10

“It’s… twinkle twinkle little star.”

Glorfindel’s voice was shaky, still, and Ecthelion felt an overpowering need to be beside him, concerts be damned. He continued to play, knowing the change in focus would help.

“Oh, _you fucker_.”

Laughing – Findo would be smiling through annoyance, he knew – Ecthelion added a cheeky, “It seemed appropriate, Findo, hmm?” Reminding him, subtly, who he was with – and who _Erestor_ was with. O _f all the people who might have found Glorfindel like that, why did it have to be the one guy he had an impossible crush on?_ “You need me to come home early, sweets?” he asked, aware that he was failing at keeping up a cheery front. Worry coursed through his veins. It had been a long time since Glorfindel had been lost to one of his debilitating panic attacks, long enough that Ecthelion had not felt too anxious about accepting the offer to tour the Far East with the Symphony. “Or will you be okay for the rest of the week?”

Glorfindel groaned, which gave Ecthelion some hope that he’d be alright.

“There’s no need for you to leave early, Ecto,” he sighed, “I was just…. Taken by surprise.”

“If you’re sure,” Ecthelion replied, frowning into the dark room. “But you haven’t had a panic attack in over a year now – maybe I should come home…” Calculating flight times in his head and cursing the timezones between them, Ecthelion almost missed the reply from the other side of the world.

“Don’t worry about me, Ecto,” Glorfindel admonished, “you’re playing for the Parliament of Umbar tomorrow, worry about _that_.”

“Pfft, parliament, smarliament,” Ecthelion said, “you’re more important.” The childishness brought a smile to his face, widening when he heard its echo in Glorfindel’s voice. “Call me if you need to. _I mean it_.”

“Aww, I love you too,” Glorfindel chuckled, the kind of chuckle that was, if not completely level, at least approaching his usual tone. “Go to bed.”

“If you say so, Glowstick,” Ecthelion yawned. “Love ya.”

 

Hanging up the phone, Ecthelion sat on the edge of his hotel bed for a few minutes, the flute held forgotten in his hand. Guilt rose up, bitter and thick in his throat. _He_ had left his best friend alone, and Glorfindel had had to be helped by that bloody bastard Erestor!

Being angry at the other man for being where he should have been did not make the guilt any less potent – and Ecthelion was too self-aware to pretend that it did.

Someone knocked on the door.

With a snarl, Ecthelion jumped to his feet, still clutching the stupid flute that had been all he could find in his panicked scramble through the dark hotel room, banging the wooden nightstand with his foot.

“Damn it!” he cursed loudly, hopping one-legged towards the door, wondering if he had just broken his pinky toe.

“Are you alright, Ecthelion?” _Of all the people to knock on my door at… 3 am… it just had to be_ her _, didn’t it? Fuck my life, honestly._

“I’m fine, Indie,” he called back, fumbling for the light switch and wincing at the sudden brightness. His toe throbbed.

“You… you don’t sound fine, Ecthelion…” Indilë replied softly.

Pulling the door open, he squinted at her, surprised by her softened appearance. Her dark red hair, usually kept in a tight classic chignon, hung in loose waves around her face, making her look a lot less stern than the competent pianist she usually was. The sharply cut suit and fancy shoes had been replace with a fluffy bathrobe – not monogrammed, so it had to be her own – and her feet were protected from the chill of the A/C by a pair of soft-looking lambswool slippers.

In that moment, he defied anyone not to be just a little bit in love with her.

Indilë smiled softly.

“I heard… scrambling,” she said, gesturing to the room next door and blushing slightly, “is everything alright?”

Suddenly, Ecthelion did not want to be alone, and maybe talking to Indie – unanimously voted best listener by the orchestra – would help him work out his own mind.

“Just… oh, come in, will you?” he said, turning around to hobble back towards his bed, silently despairing at the mess of his room.

“Ecthelion… uhm… are you aware that you’re bleeding?” Indilë asked gently, closing the door behind her.

“Bleeding?” Looking down, Ecthelion swayed slightly. “Oh.” He felt faint. Indilë appeared like magic, supporting him as he hopped a few steps forwards, falling face-first onto his bed.

“Lift your foot for me,” Indilë continued, a cool hand running lightly over his bare shoulder as the mattress dipped with her weight.

Ignoring her words entirely – he did not like the sight of his own blood – Ecthelion felt a moment of mortification at the thought that he might have been naked. _That would have been awkward._ Sending a stern admonishment southward about either subsiding or at least not growing any firmer by thinking of distracting images of Indilë’s hair wrapped around his fist, Ecthelion groaned out loud. He was used to ignoring how desirable he found her at work, or even at post-concert drinks, but _this_ Indilë… he had no defences prepared against the soft sensuality of _this_ Indilë.

Indilë’s weight shifted slightly as she tutted to herself. “You’ve torn the nail out,” she informed him, those slender cool fingers wrapping around his ankle. Suddenly the pain registered. Ecthelion mastered his desire to whimper, keeping his head safely hidden in the pillows when her weight lifted, and he heard the soft sound of her slippers moving towards the bathroom. “Do you have a first aid kit?” she asked.

“No,” Ecthelion admitted, rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

Indilë hummed gently, turning off the tap. “I’ve got some Band-Aids in my room,” she said, “where’s your key-card, I’ll go get them while you clean your foot?”

Ecthelion gestured vaguely towards the desk where he’d dropped it – he thought so, at least – and dropped his arm over his eyes.

“Not a fan of blood, I take it?” Indilë asked, lifting his arm to give him a small smile.

Ecthelion shook his head, feeling childish but at the same time very reluctant even to look at his foot.

“That’s alright,” she continued, bending down and pressing a kiss against his forehead. “Just don’t move your foot – the bowl is fairly small and I don’t feel like drying the carpet tonight…” Giving him a grin, she dropped his arm again, her robe swishing against his bare leg when she turned.

Ecthelion removed the arm just in time to admire the outline of her arse when she bent over, only to have any fond thoughts of her stripped away by the painful shock of having his foot dropped into the tepid water.

“Ouch, woman!” he exclaimed, glaring at that shapely backside. “Warn a bloke, will you?!”

Indilë chuckled. “No moving,” she admonished him mock-sternly, swiping up the key-card and leaving the room.

Ecthelion groaned, following the sway of her hips out the door with his eyes. He definitely needed to get laid. Soon.

 

* * *

 

 

“I didn’t think I’d see you till Yule?” Moryo asked, studying the long lean lines of Erestor’s form when he opened the door to his tailoring shop on Friday morning. “Problem with the suits I made you for work?”

“No…” Erestor fidgeted with his pocket watch, his thumbnail scratching across the engraving he knew by heart. _The deepest secret nobody knows_ – a line from his great-great-grandfather’s most famous poem – was written on the inside of the lid, hidden behind a small picture. Once, the picture had been a woman in the pale light of dawn, looking out of a window, her hand gently resting on her pregnant belly, the straight black hair Erestor had inherited hanging loosely down her back, half-turned to smile at the photographer. That image had followed Emery Cummings throughout his life, accompanied by an everchanging array of photos of Erestor as he grew. On the back face of it, surrounded by an intricately tooled border of waves, the letters – worn smooth by Emery’s thumb over the years, and Erestor’s since his death – the pocket watch read _For my darling love, from Winganis._ The pocket watch – a gift on the first anniversary of their marriage – had been one of the few things salvaged from the car wreck that had killed his parents when Erestor was 13 and he carried it as both a reminder of them and as a sort of talisman.

Moryo’s eyebrow rose higher.

Erestor flushed – he somehow always forgot how well Celegorm’s older brother could read people – glancing around the front room. “I’mgoingtothegalawithahotbloke!” he said, taking a deep breath once the words had escaped his mouth.

Moryo’s elegantly shaped brow rose an increment higher.

“The Noldor Gala, I see…” he murmured, “same clothes as last year? I can’t think it wouldn’t still fit you.”

“It met with an unfortunate accident,” Erestor replied, grateful that Moryo didn’t pry.

“I have just the thing; you’ll love the embroidery,” Moryo said, before raising a single finger, “and, no, I’m still not giving you the number of my top hat guy. I’m saving that for your – or Bría’s – wedding.” Turning about smartly, a measuring tape already slung over his shoulders, Moryo moved towards the back room, ignoring Erestor’s mock scowl. He had long desired a top hat, but Moryo was adamant it’d make him look like a daft prick or – worse, in Moryo’s opinion – a magician.

“No top hats, I promise,” he sighed, fiddling with some heavily embroidered silk and wondering if his budget could support a new waistcoat already, reluctantly deciding that the ones he currently owned were more than adequate to his needs.

Moryo’s laughter floated out to him, swiftly followed by the tailor himself, carrying an armload of purple fabric that Erestor immediately fell in love with.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel had paced up and down, moving agitatedly through the flat all evening; he had gone straight from Mindon to Gothmog’s gym and although it had cost him a few glares from another patron, he’d managed to tear Gothmog away long enough for a good spar – given the way the guy had looked at them with more than a little awed apprehension afterwards, Glorfindel rather assumed that he would eventually be forgiven.

Now, however, he had run into a new problem.

He did not own a suit – or, rather, he did, but his suits were made for his teenage shape, worn before he joined the army, and hardly fitting his current physique – and dress blues were out, for obvious reasons.

Calling Ecthelion – he wore suits for concerts, after all, even if he couldn’t be present to help with finding the right one – got him to voicemail, cursing the time difference once again.

Instead, after his fourth rummage through his admittedly bare and definitely not-containing-a-suit closet, Glorfindel rang a different number, slightly uneasy, but knowing he’d never be able to sleep in this state of mind anyhow.

“Glorfindel?” The deep voice greeted him, mild surprise in his tone, but none of the annoyance Glorfindel would have expected calling this late – or early, he realised, hearing the first birds begin to sing outside.

“Father,” he greeted, “I need help.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ecthelion woke up calm and horny, his head pillowed softly and his nose filled with the tangy scent of aroused woman, delicious enough to make his own morning wood harden further. Drawing in a deep breath, he blinked his eyes open with a small groan of combined discomfort and desire.

Red curls and pale skin filled his vision, his nose less than an inch from the origin of that scent, making him want to bury his tongue in her folds.

He didn’t remember inviting someone back to his rooms last night, but she surely wouldn’t mind waking up like this? His tongue watered, licking once across his lips – and then the events of the night came back to him with the light throbbing of his pinky toe and Ecthelion stiffened, aborting his plan with a whimper.

Indilë – who shrank fearfully away from flirtation and overtly sexual overtures alike – was the woman asleep in his bed; Indilë, who had come to his room because she worried about him, and had stayed to take care of his injuries, had let him rest his head in her lap while he told her everything she did not already know about the Glorfindel/Erestor fuck-up.

Ecthelion groaned to himself. Carefully not moving, he glanced up her body, keeping his eyes almost shut. His head was pillowed on her soft inner thigh, the thin silken nightdress she wore had ridden up, revealing everything to his gaze. The bathrobe that had been more than modest the night before was now gaping, the belt come undone and the silk playing peekaboo with her nipple every time she breathed. Swallowing hard, Ecthelion closed his eyes, trying to pretend he had not been granted this vision, and turned onto his back, determined to stay that way until she woke up.

His groin throbbed, making his hand clench into fists as he avoided the temptation of touch. The tent in his boxers was supremely unconcerned with fading away, continuing to bombard him with temptation, the smell of her lingering in his nose as though he _had_ stolen a taste.

Indilë yawned.

He felt her freeze, her leg stiffening beneath his head. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then she sighed, running her hand softly over his hair, pulling down her nightdress in the process, he thought. The sleek rustling of cloth told him she had sorted her robe, her fingers tracing a path onto his shoulder, shaking him lightly.

Turning his head, he was greeted by blue-green silk, covering her most intimate place.

“Good morning,” he rasped, voice thick with lust he hoped she believed was sleep. “I think we… fell asleep…”

“Good morning,” she whispered back, turning her head to smile at him, her eyes widening slightly when she came face to face with the rather obvious evidence of his desire. Ecthelion flushed, yanking a piece of blanket over himself. Indilë’s cheeks glowed prettily, her eyes locked on his face. “Did you, uhm… did you sleep well?”

Ecthelion nodded, quite certain that any attempt of speech on his part would be too gravelly to ignore when he caught sight of her teeth catching her lip.

“I…” she paused, her eyes flicking towards his ear and back to his eyes, “I should go… get… dressed…” she said slowly.

Ecthelion stared at her, wanting to protest.

He nodded slowly, sitting up on the mattress and wrapped his arms around his knees. Indilë swung her legs out of bed, tightening the sash on her thin robe.

“I’ll… see you at breakfast?” she asked, giving him a cautious smile.

“Ah.” Ecthelion croaked. “Yes – sure!”

With a final soft smile, Indilë left his room, her scent lingering in his nose. Ecthelion fell back onto his bed with a groan, scrubbing his hands across his face, feeling an echo of memory stir – had Indilë been playing with his beard last night? – a small shiver of sensual pleasure licked up his spine at the thought of her long nails scratching through his beard.

Giving up the battle with himself, he glared down his body, greeted by the jaunty sight of his own erection, very clearly wanting to follow her into the shower he realised he could vaguely hear through the wall.

Perhaps he should go out tonight, after the concert, find himself some willing company… _not_ taking them back to his hotel room, he suddenly realised, remembering the way Indilë had blushed when she said ‘scrambling’ the night before.

Groaning heavily, Ecthelion got to his feet, hissing slightly when he accidentally pressed his toe into the sheets, and made his way to his own bathroom, hand already wrapped around his erection when he turned on the water, dropping his underwear onto the tiles and stepping under the spray with a light groan of pleasure, imagining Indilë’s slick wet body pressed against him.

It did not take him long to shudder through his release, watching the water washing the evidence down the drain but failing to wash away the slight shame he felt every time he gave in to the attraction he felt for her.

 

* * *

 

 

When the car came to a stop outside his building, Glorfindel was surprised to see Father in the driver’s seat – it wasn’t much more than an hour’s drive to Lávar Manor, but he had not expected Morfind Lávar _himself_ to show up – of the dark Bentley that glided to a stop by the steps.

“Glorfindel,” Father greeted, no sign of tiredness or the early hour in his aristocratic bearing, his hair tidied back into an immaculate plaited queue behind his head.

“Father,” Glorfindel nodded, smiling cautiously. Morfind – Lord Lávar, the Lord of Golden Flowers and one of the wealthiest men in the world – nodded back, a light smile playing around his mouth.

“I’ve made an appointment for us with my tailor,” Morfind announced when he had fastened his seatbelt, letting the car purr away from the kerb. “You will like him, I think – the grandson of a friend of your great-grandmother’s, in fact,” he added, “the boy knows his craft.”

 _Boy_ , was, perhaps, a slight misnomer, Glorfindel thought, when he saw the well-dressed man who opened the tailoring shop for them, a respectful nod exchanged between him and Father. He was at least five years older than Glorfindel, and for a moment he wondered how someone so young had landed a client like Father, even though he intended to take full advantage of his family name for once.

“Lord Lávar,” the tailor greeted, “how may I be of service?”

“My son, Glorfindel,” Father introduced, a hand landing on Glorfindel’s shoulder with a light squeeze, “this is Carnistir, grandson of Finwë Noldovia.”

“Master Lávarchil,” Carnistir nodded politely.

Glorfindel tried not to wince, though the reaction was almost instinctual by now – he had done a lot to bury that part of his family where few people would know of it, preferring life outside the restraints of aristocratic propriety.

Morfind laughed softly, a deep rumble of amusement that never failed to bring him back to happier summer days at Lávar – after Grandfather died, and the Manor became their real home, like the seaside villa he still owned had been for his early childhood – listening to that laugh whenever he did something amusing, chasing away the shadows in Father’s eyes.

“My son goes by his mother’s name unless it’s a very official occasion,” he rumbled, taking a seat on the comfortable looking sofa that was strategically placed t view those leaving the changing rooms.

“I need a proper suit,” Glorfindel interjected, before this Carnistir could ask questions bound to be uncomfortable. “I’m going to a Gala at Mindon University and I don’t own a suit.”

Carnistir did not reply with anything but a raised eyebrow and Glorfindel did not feel a need to explain that he’d joined the army at 19 and spent all ‘Official Occasions’ as Father called them in his dress uniform with the medals and accolades he had earned as his only real decoration.

“Well, then,” Carnistir said, gesturing towards one fitting room, “if you’ll drop your clothing in there, I’ll be right in to take your measurements. Turning back to Father, he continued, “I take it your usual coffee is fine, sir? I’ll phone into the Alqualondë for a light breakfast, too.”

“That should do nicely, Master Carnistir,” Father agreed, picking up the artbook left on the small coffee table by the settee, paging through what appeared to be a collection of renaissance masters with great pleasure.

Glorfindel smiled slightly – Father had an eye for art he rather envied and no little skill with a paintbrush and oils himself, to boot – and walked into the changing room, closing the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

Gathering everything he’d need for the day, Ecthelion left his room feeling like a new man, promising himself that he would _not_ lust after Indilë, no matter how tempting the prospect was, and that he’d find some uncomplicated pleasure later to get her off of his mind – it usually worked, after all.

Loading up a plate from the breakfast buffet, he caught sight of her – hair back in her chignon and her skirt-and-blouse ensemble entirely professional… and sexy enough to make his heart beat faster, nearly stumbling into his seat as he cursed his libido for a besotted fool.

“Good morning, Ecthelion,” she murmured, looking up from her raspberries with a soft smile, her lips reddened by juice.

“Morning,” he coughed, managing to choke on air.

“How’s your foot?” she wondered, handing him a napkin when he’d finished coughing long enough to dry his streaming eyes.

“What foot?” Ecthelion wondered, momentarily drawing a blank.

Indilë laughed lightly. “I suppose that’s good news,” she smiled. “Are you ready for the performance today?”

Ecthelion nodded, popping a spoonful of yoghurt into his mouth, enjoying the way the fresh raspberries exploded on his tongue in a shower of tart but sweet juice.

“So long as I don’t get distracted in the fifth movement again…” he sighed.

Indilë chuckled. “That was four years ago, now, will you ever let it go?” Wrapping her long slender digits around her teacup, she sipped delicately.

Ecthelion forgot the question, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. _Why am I so affected now? It isn’t usually so difficult to keep a respectful if amiable distance between us… what’s wrong with me?_

Breakfast passed in thoughtful but comfortable silence, only broken by inconsequentials like ‘Pass the sugar, please’ and when it was time to leave for the rehearsal and final checks, Ecthelion felt almost back to his usual friendly camaraderie.

Offering Indilë his arm like he had done a hundred times before, he simultaneously enjoyed the phantom warmth of her body close to him more than he had before and cursed the impulse to tug her close for a kiss as they walked towards the Concert Hall of Umbar.

 

* * *

 

 

Father had dropped him off at work – after a hasty breakfast consumed in bites between fittings and the realisation that Morfind Lávar had an eye for fashion that Glorfindel had never really appreciated – but the morning in Carnistir’s tailoring shop had not failed to leave its mark. Not only had Father left the Manor to accompany him to what a quick phone search had told him was the most exclusive tailor in the country, with waiting lists for personal appointments longer than his arm, but the quiet words he’d spoken when he dropped him off had warmed Glorfindel from head to toe.

_If your young man is at the ball, do introduce me – no, you do not have to reveal our relationship…. I just… I like to see you so… different. You seem happier than you’ve been in a long time – no matter what obstacles lie between you, I’m glad to see you act more like yourself._

The words continued to repeat in his mind as he followed the winding path, waving distractedly at someone calling his name.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning,” Erestor said, raising his cup of coffee in greeting. Glorfindel looked tired but pleased, and for a moment Erestor wondered if Ecthelion _had_ come home early, surprising himself with the strength of his anger at the thought of being cheated of Glorfindel’s company at the Gala – he tried to tell himself it was not a date, but he knew himself well enough to be unable to ignore the small voice that told him both ‘yes, it is’ and ‘you want it to be’ entirely.

“Oh, hello – Erestor,” Glorfindel replied, that warm smile that made Erestor’s insides flutter in the best way washing over him like sunlight. “Good morning. Is that coffee?”

“Yes?” Erestor asked, lifting his travel mug – Mama Galadriel had insisted on buying them a proper coffee maker as a housewarming gift, and the travel mugs were Celeborn’s environmentally sound contribution to the morning habit, “I brought it from home – you’d think a prestigious place like Mindon would have decent coffee, but it is honestly atrocious…”

“Can’t be worse than barracks coffee,” Glorfindel replied, shrugging thoughtfully as he looked at the cup; decorated with a picturesque vista of a coffee plantation that Celeborn owned.

“Oh?” Erestor smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s probably mostly mud,” Glorfindel shrugged, “and usually boiled beyond death by the time anyone gets any – even if you get the first cup of the batch.”

“You were… in the army?” Erestor wndered, falling into step next to Glorfindel, realising that an occupation in the armed forces was not all that foreign to his image of Glorfindel – and wondering just how delicious he looked in uniform…

“Yes.” Glorfindel’s reply was short, the tone clipped. Erestor nodded silently, deciding that it was better not to pry.

“My mother served,” he said instead, “she was a language officer.”

“Ah – that’s how you…” Glorfindel gestured upwards with an unreadable expression.

Erestor nodded. “She’d have these… _spells_ my father called them, periods where the things she had seen rose up to blot out the world around her.”

On that sombre note, they reached the doors to the Teciéo, continuing inside in thoughtful silence until Erestor had to break away to get to his own office – Glorfindel had class, he knew, having studied the schedule for sociology lectures when he was making up his mind about avoiding him entirely.

Receiving another warm smile that he tried to convince himself meant nothing, Erestor made his way up to his office, settling in to mark the test he had given the day before; he did not expect anyone to need him during office hours quite so early in term, and remained undisturbed till lunchtime.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The concert that evening went flawlessly, Ecthelion’s mind entirely focused on the sheet music before him, the notes flowing from his fingers and bow together, the deep hum of the instrument between his legs soothing and familiar like an old friend.

 

In disorganised groups, the members of the symphony left the concert hall, some intending to head out to sample the local nightlife – probably the best way to knock some sense into his head, Ecthelion thought ruefully – and some intending to go back to the hotel for a nightcap and bed.

He was surprised to see Indilë in the former group – she rarely enjoyed going to bars and the like, even with friends along – but decided he was better off pretending not to care.

 

Dancing with a local beauty or two – or four, but who was counting – did not bring him what he sought, and part of him remained peripherally aware of Indilë, sitting at the bar with a highball of some kind, studying the crowds but offering her usual polite but firm rejections of suitors.

Ecthelion wasn’t truly aware that he was keeping as close tabs on her as he was, but he noticed the guy touching her drink when she leaned over to speak to one of the lute-players. Abandoning his current partner – a fiery redhead showing more than enough skin to raise his pulse in close quarters – without a word, Ecthelion bore down on the bar.

 “Do not drink that,” he snarled, imposing himself between the two stools. Later, they told him he’d appeared like a vengeful fury, but at the time he had been filled with only a single thought and simply grabbed Indilë’s wrist, stopping her from tossing the dregs back as he stared down the man sitting beside her.

“Ecthel-?” Indilë began but set down her glass, pulling her wrist free of his loosened grasp. “What’s wrong?”

“This…” he struggled to come up with a word vile enough, his hands curling into fists as he longed to smash the bloke’s face into the bar-top, his mind busy spinning one horrifying scenario after the other, “… _mycelious slime mould_ put something in your drink!”

“No, I didn’t!” the man protested, shrinking away from Ecthelion’s gaze, guilt written across his face.

“Rollo! We’ve got a wee louse up here gonna piss himself in a minute,” the bartender called, summoning a man who had been cast from the same mould as Gothmog, Ecthelion vaguely noted, feeling a keen edge of disappointment when the bouncer hauled off the man who was now loudly protesting his innocence – not that anyone listened. “I’ll keep this for the police,” the barkeep continued quietly, scooping the glass and its contents up with the aid of a napkin and depositing them in a clear plastic bag, “you’ve a number for them to call?” he added, glancing at Indilë. “You should probably get her out of here – looks like she might faint.”

Ecthelion wrote down his own details on another napkin, exchanging a nod with the bartender.

“Indilë?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice soft, “Will you let me walk you back to the hotel?”

She nodded, hopping down from her stool and moved mechanically towards the door.

Ecthelion cursed harshly, snatching up her purse and shawl and forgetting any and all plans he had harboured for his evening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Heading home for the day, Erestor caught sight of Glorfindel, apparently taking advantage of the warm weather, walking across the lawns with a trail of students following behind, resembling nothing so much as a golden retriever with a row of eager puppies scampering along behind him as his long strides at up the distance. Erestor was too far away to overhear the topic of discussion, leaning against a thick tree and enjoying the animation of Glorfindel’s face covertly, watching the way the sunlight gleamed in his hair.

 _Arien_ , he thought, with a small smile at his own fancies, _you remind me of the Sun_.

Shaking his head, surreptitiously aware that anyone might see him ogling the way Glorfindel filled out the tight t-shirt he wore, noting the way his muscles moved fluidly as he gestured, clearly enjoying himself immensely, Erestor went on his way, thoughts continuing to circle that golden head of hair and wondering what it would feel like to be allowed to glide his fingers through it.

Slinging his own jacket over one shoulder to dangle carelessly from two fingertips, he rolled up his sleeves, soaking up the warmth of the sun on his face as he walked, heading towards Foresta d’Oro at a leisurely pace; he had no immediate plans aside from bringing Bría some food at the theatre, well aware that his best friend was not pleasant company when hungry.

He did not look back.

If he had, he might have seen the long glance that followed him, felt the sudden silence of a lecture interrupted as Glorfindel swallowed back his desire, tucking away the images inspired by sunlight gleaming on dark hair for later perusal.

 

 


	6. The Perfection of a Moment fleeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people have epiphanies.... ;)

“Indie, wait!” Ecthelion called, catching up with the errant pianist hallway down the street. She kept walking, her heels clacking hard against the pavement.

“Leave me alone!” she screeched at him, whirling around.

Ecthelion came to a sudden stop. “Are you… he’s gone, Indie, I promise,” he said, trying for soothing. His own temper was still boiling, more than happy to render in excruciating detail all the kinds of things that _might_ have happened if he had not seen her drink getting spiked.

“What does it matter?” she seethed. “Men are all the same – at home, here, _everywhere!_ ” she cried. “I hate you!” Snatching her purse and shawl from his hands, Indilë spun on her heel, stalking away from him.

“That’s not true!” Ecthelion exclaimed, reaching out to snatch her wrist and making her look back at him.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked.

Ecthelion let go immediately, the look in her eyes making him take a step back.

“I thought it would be different… with music,” Indilë murmured, though Ecthelion had the feeling she wasn’t talking to him at all, “but it’s not. Never will be.”

He stared after her when she set off again, the desolation in her voice carving rends in his already-bleeding heart.  

He stayed three meters behind her all the way to the hotel.

She did not turn around once.

 

Ecthelion watched the door to Indilë’s room close with a heavy sigh. Was that really what she thought of men? Of _him?_ Trudging down to his own door, he rummaged through his satchel for the key-card, wondering what the day would bring – only to realise that the card was nowhere to be found.

 _Great._ _Just great_.

Glancing at the door to Indilë’s room – _was the card still in her pocket?_ – he decided not to chance her temper once more. Retreating to the hotel bar seemed a better option; the receptionist could make him a new key when he’d made himself calm down enough to bother trying for sleep.

_Does Indilë really hate me?_

The thought he had been trying _not_ to think appeared like a bolt of lightning that nearly shocked him off the barstool when he was putting down the glass that had held his first shot of whisky.

 

Some floors above Ecthelion’s one man pity party, Indilë was using the shower to cover the sound of her sobs. Anger had carried her back to her room and slammed the door, but then it had fled and left only a state of desolation, replaying Ecthelion’s face when she screamed at him.

_I hate you!_

Her own voice rung in her mind, sitting back against the cool tiles and she hid her face in her knees, feeling the water pound her head, turning her neat chignon into an impossible tangle of pins and hair without her caring.

He had looked… hurt. Hurt but still concerned enough to walk her home, and the thought only made her feel guiltier. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she cried herself out, trying to block out the voice telling her she was completely unlovable by anyone but Him-Who-Would-Never-Be-Named.

 _Ecthelion likes me…_ she told the voice, wishing her own was stronger, more certain. _I think…_

 _Not anymore…_ it crowed back gleefully.

Hearing the ghost of His laughter in her mind, Indilë shook her head, reaching up the turn off the water and got out of the bath without slipping on the wet tiles, rubbing a towel vigorously over her body as if to remove the memory of another’s touch.

She would apologise, make amends, and hope that Ecthelion forgave her.

 

* * *

 

 

The buzzing in his bag made Ecthelion halt his second glass of whisky before he took a sip, fishing his phone out to see a missed call… from Indilë.

He put the glass down, feeling surprisingly shaky when he hit the call back button.

“Indilë?” he asked softly.

“I’m sorry!” she replied, her voice clear but with a note of tears she was trying to hold back. “I was horrible to you, I’m so sorry.”

“Indie…” Ecthelion began, only to have his acceptance drowned in a flood of apologies and self-accusations.

 

A swift decision saw him standing before the unassuming wooden door next to his own, his ears still ringing with the choked off sound of Indilë crying before she hung up. Watching his fist lift, rapping at the door, seemed almost automatic, an act done without conscious command from his mind.

“Open the door, Indie,” he called. “Please?”

It seemed like it took forever before the lock released and the door swung open just enough to reveal Indilë’s tearstained face, her bottom lip caught in her teeth as she stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, dropping her eyes to his feet. “Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry, love,” Ecthelion heard himself say, though he doubted she heard the endearment that tripped past his teeth before he could stop it. With a small sob of distress, Indilë pulled the door wide and suddenly Ecthelion found himself staggering a step backwards, his arms coming up to wrap around her back, feeling sobs shake her small frame, making her tremble against him. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

Glancing down the hallway, he shuffled slightly, bringing them back into Indilë’s room and closing the door behind him. Stroking her hair slowly, he winced at the tangled wet mess of it, carefully picking out pins and dropping them on the floor by his foot. Running his hands through her loose hair, finger-combing out the snarls, he hummed something soothing that he belatedly recognised from Swan Lake, rocking Indilë gently and trying not to notice how well she fit in his arms.

“I ruined your shirt,” Indilë hiccupped after a long while, drawing back slightly to stare at the formerly white breast of his shirt, now stained with tears and water and the makeup she had not removed with her crying already.

“You can ruin all my shirts,” Ecthelion chuckled, squeezing her gently to make her stay in his arms, feeling a visceral pleasure at the thought that he was keeping her sheltered, safe from all trouble in the world and making himself blush with his maudlin thoughts. “So long as you don’t mind me walking around shirtless, of course,” he winked.

Indilë flushed, hard to see beneath the redness of her crying jag, but still noticeable. “You took my hair down?” she wondered, however, seeming surprised she hadn’t noticed, reaching up to run her fingers through the loose waves.

Ecthelion swallowed back a flood of desire, nodding dumbly. “I thought you might fall asleep,” he admitted, “and pins can’t be comfortable in bed.”

Indilë’s flush deepened, her soft blue-grey eyes darting up to his face before skittering away once more, though she remained within the circle of his arms which was all Ecthelion wanted in that moment – or at least all he would allow himself to want.

And then she smashed his resolve into a million tiny pieces with a single question.

“Will you stay with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

“Yes.”

 

Looking at his own door, fingers clutching the keycard he’d found in Indilë’s bathrobe pocket, Ecthelion glanced back at the dark opening of her door, left ajar for him, the soft glow of the bedside lamp shining across the threshold.

He had never gone through his own ablutions quite so swiftly – but thoroughly – before, part of his mind still in the next room, more than excited at the thought that he’d have an excuse to keep holding her throughout what was left of the night.

When he returned, toeing off his shoes inside Indilë’s rooms and pulling his own bathrobe off, dropping it in a heap on the chair, Ecthelion thought he heard a small sigh from the occupant of the bed, but when he looked at her, Indilë’s eyes were closed, her face still showing evidence of tears though she had washed in the time he had been gone.

 _No one will ever again hurt you and call it love, my darling,_ Ecthelion promised silently, feeling his heart lurch at the sight of her.

Crawling under the duvet, he gathered Indilë back to him, wrapping his arms around her body. Her hair filled his nose with the soft scent of jasmines, and he had to stop his hand wandering down her back to cup her arse in desire, telling certain eager parts of him to lay low and fall asleep.

It took him hours to take his own advice, listening to the soft sound of Indilë’s breathing, feeling her gentle hand lying on his chest warm like a brand, claiming his heart for her own.

 _Yours_ , he thought, pressing his lips against the top of her head just before he fell asleep, and feeling a little surprised that the thought did not seem daunting. _I’m_ _going to be yours… and if the gods are good, you’ll let me make you mine, too._

 

* * *

 

 

Because Glorfindel was some kind of masochist – or so Ecthelion said when he heard the next morning – he had obtained a ticket to Friday’s Opening Night at the theatre, determined to utterly loathe the production of _The Song of Twilight Dreams_ because Erestor’s Bría played a part in the age-old tale of the interrupted Journey and the formation of Doriath _._

He did not manage.

Nimrodel, who Ecthelion had raved about before as one of the finest voices he had had a chance to perform with, was a fantastic Melian, her pale blonde hair turned dark by a wig that meant he did not recognise her until she began to sing her first part, a hauntingly melancholic song of seeking. Her voice was almost enough to enchant _him_ as thoroughly as she enchanted her Thingol.

He barely even noticed ‘Bría’, mentally sneering at the name as though that would make Erestor-in-his-memory speak it less lovingly, when she appeared on the stage, her song one of the Sea and the longing for safety. The blonde bloke playing Olwë was a nice surprise, muscular beneath the robes, his hair tied back and decorated with seashells as his voice brought tears to more than a few eyes when he sang of his torn heart.

 

 

At intermission, Glorfindel caught sight of Erestor chatting amiably with a young redhead. The twin brother of his companion played a minor role but when Glorfindel drew near – intending to affect surprise at bumping into his colleague – Erestor was waxing lyrical about his girlfriend’s talent and Glorfindel felt a green envy monster roil in his stomach.

Hiding behind a pillar with the glass of white wine he had bought only because standing in line for the counter for so long made him feel slightly obligated, Glorfindel surreptitiously glanced at his colleague. The suit tonight was dark, paired with a dark green tie that made Erestor’s eyes take a hint of its colour; Glorfindel had a sudden vivid flash of the blue silk back of the waistcoat he’d seen that day at the Thai place and wondered if tonight’s garment was made in the same manner but with fine green silk instead. That thought made him look down, realising that Erestor’s trousers were tailored spectacularly, showing off that perky behind that he’d already lusted over in his dreams – more than once.

Of course, the jacket of his suit covered that coveted curve, but Glorfindel’s imagination had plenty to work with and more than enough to make him yearn to be able to squeeze it, feel if it was as firm as it felt in his dreams. Swallowing dryly, he glanced down, thanking every deity imagined and otherwise that his casual blazer hid the firmness of his cock’s interest in the topic of his musings.

Looking at his watch in an attempt to appear as though he _wasn’t_ hyper-focused on the most beautiful darkhaired man he’d ever been in love with, Glorfindel noticed the time in a sudden rush; intermission was almost over.

And then the appellation registered properly.

_In love._

_In love with._

_Oh, Fuck Me… I’m in love with Erestor!_

Groaning at himself mentally did nothing to dim the glow of his epiphany – the glow of Erestor’s cautious smile, the support of his calm voice and gentle hands soothing Glorfindel’s panicked mind – and when Glorfindel’s elbow was bumped lightly he returned to his surroundings with the speed and violence of a bucket of ice upended over his head.

 

 

“I think this role was perfect for Bría,” Erestor said, smiling at Amras whose brother played one of the hunters sent out to find Thingol. Amras nodded brightly. “Did you not find Haldir stunning? Very convincing, I reckon – you’d never realise that he gets seasick crossing the bridge over the pond at the pagoda!”

Laughing, Erestor thought he caught sight of a flash of golden hair, telling himself to stay focused on Amras. He was much too young to dislodge Erestor’s crush on Glorfindel, but the puppy-love crush burned brightly in him and Erestor did not feel like seeing his smile dim when he realised how impossible they were; not only was he too young, he was also Celegorm’s baby brother!

Turning his head slightly, he searched for that tell-tale flash of gold – no one had hair like Glorfindel’s, such a bright gold like sunlight on wheat – but he could not see the bulky hunk himself and chalked the vision up to his own longing to have someone like Glorfindel on his arm for nights like these.

The bell signalling end of intermission broke through his reverie and he gave Amras an apologetic smile – he had completely missed the young man’s reply, which was not like him. Ignoring people was rude, Mum had always told him, and Mama Galadriel had continued to school him in proper manners after her death.

Returning to his seat in the front, he shook off all thoughts of Glorfindel and his stupid hair to focus on the stage, accepting the bouquet of flowers he had stashed in the orchestra pit from Lindir, who earned a bit of side money playing his instruments here while in school.

And then someone cursed loudly off to the side, making Erestor as well as a number of others turn their heads to stare at none of than Glorfindel, giving those around him a sheepish and pained smile as he sat back down. Erestor sunk down into his own seat, certain that his face was painted in lines of longing – _Glorfindel likes theatre?_ – his grip on the flowers faltering slightly, dropping the arrangement on his own foot.

_He looks so good._

The usual t-shirt and jeans combination that made Erestor have very sinful thoughts about the power hidden behind that dark denim, had been replaced with a fine blue shirt and a pair of dark trousers, a light brown blazer offering some protection from the elements – and served to highlight Glorfindel’s broad shoulders, too, which was all kinds of unfair in Erestor’s opinion.

Imagining running his hands underneath the brown fabric, curling his hands around Glorfindel’s shoulders and sliding the garment down his arms, Erestor sank deeper into his seat, grateful that the darkness of the audience hid his surely glowing cheeks from view and tried to focus on the players on stage. Trying not to think about the feel of Glorfindel’s hands in his own, not gripping in distress, but held softly, the touch a mark of affection, Erestor wondered what it would be like to have come tonight with Glorfindel and fell into a soft daydream of tiny kisses in the darkness of the audience rows that shattered like glass at the thought of Ecthelion.

_Why can’t I stop wanting you?_

Staring at his own mental image of Glorfindel, sunlight trapped in the golden waves of his hair, Erestor shuddered lightly, feeling his groin give an eager twitch that boded ill for the self-control he would need tomorrow. Thinking about those strong arms wrapped around him in a dance, gliding across the floor did not help, the image too alluring and too vivid. There would be no dancing for him at the Gala, Erestor decided, though he knew that he’d give in if it was Glorfindel’s wish – no matter how painful the memory would be later.

 

 

Erestor noticed him, Glorfindel was sure, giving the old lady who hit his shin with her cane when she tried to pass a fake smile. His shin throbbed. It did not ache even half as much as his heart did when he found Erestor again, holding a nice bouquet obviously meant for his lady on stage after the play. Glaring towards the well-lit stage, he felt his earlier jealousy surge once more as he watched Bría move through her role, her fine alto-soprano bringing life to a lady of whom history spoke but a little.

_Why does she have to be so good?_

He stayed in his seat during the final ovations, committing the sight of Erestor accepting a kiss on the cheek for his flowers to memory as a talisman against his earlier epiphany of doom.

He already knew it wouldn’t work, the numbers that Erestor had keyed into his phone when he bumped into him at work seared into his memory. He had changed it, later, debating whether to text Erestor and offer to stand him a drink, and the contact no longer read Erestor Cummings, it simply read Erestor.

With a small emoji of a heart next to it.

 

 


	7. Silks, Perfumes, and Poetry, oh my!

Several phone calls with Ecto over the past few days had failed to calm Glorfindel down – and utterly failed at making his heart stop singing ‘ _I have a date with Erestoooooor’_ – no matter how many times he told him to treat the Noldor Gala as any other fancy party he’d gone to.

Scowling in the mirror and wondering if he should just give up and go back to the basic knot he’d used as a child in boarding school, he undid the mangled tie once again.  Ecthelion had laughed his arse off at the suggestion of their old school’s simple knot, his annoyingly chipper mood only heightened by the fact that Indilë had agreed to date him. Glorfindel was happy for his friend – he liked Indilë – but he couldn’t claim to be without some envy at the apparent ease with which Ecthelion had managed to sort out his own love life.

Trying one more time, feeling a surprisingly wistful longing for his old dress uniforms, Glorfindel’s tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, focusing hard enough in the mirror that he thought he looked like a cross-eyed monkey.

The knot was a mess, nowhere near the crisp folds and lines he remembered Father showing him in the tailor’s shop. Undoing it once more, he decided he was too old to call Father for aid – and most certainly too old to leave his tie undone until he arrived and _found_ Morfind Lávar – sighing at himself and stopping his fingers just before they messed up the careful styling of his hair that the barber had created after his late afternoon trim.

Three video tutorials – plus an uncountable number of retries and one hysterical voicemail left on Ecto’s phone – later, Glorfindel felt somewhat satisfied by the way he looked.

Satisfied enough to leave the house, at least.

Father had offered to send a car – he was an annual attendee himself, having sponsored several scholarship students over the years; not a few of them in Lilírë Lysild’s name, honouring his late wife, Glorfindel’s mother – but Glorfindel had declined, feeling conspicuous enough in his new suit and wishing to retain his relative anonymity for as long as possible.

If he saw Father at the Gala, he had asked him to pretend they were not so closely related, even though he knew his refusal to use his proper title made his father sad, at times. On the other hand, Morfind understood the reluctance that Glorfindel felt, having confessed more than once that he wished he had been brave enough to defy his own Father in that manner; not that Morfind had not rebelled against the stuffiness of the aristocracy in his own ways, but he had always been Lávarchil, and never had the chance to choose differently. Glorfindel wasn’t sure Morfind understood just how grateful he was for the comparative slack in his own upbringing, but the thought of his grandfather’s stern hand – and sterner belt – still had the power to make him shudder.

Somehow, the fact that Morfind Lávar would be present at the Gala was a comfort, how odd that would have sounded to his younger self; Glorfindel had been a cocky and self-assured young man, chafing against Morfind’s strong protective streak, and it hadn’t been until he returned from war that they had regained some of the comfort of his childhood.

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor, on the other hand, was feeling reasonably calm, getting ready to leave on his own. Celebrían had given him a somewhat modified pre-date pep talk but she had left hours before; second night was, at times, more hectic than opening night, making last-minute adjustments for hours before the next show. He had returned the favour, giving his own pep talk, and watched her nearly skip down the street with a soft smile. The play was good – he’d told her so since the workshops began – but it was nice to see her so happy, her floral-print dress blowing in the breeze when she turned at the corner of the street to give him a jaunty wave with her straw hat, nearly losing the beribboned millinery to the wind.

Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of his best friend, Erestor returned to the flat, pulling off his soft workout clothes as he went. Bría claimed that morning yoga was a necessity when she had to deal with Haldir forgetting half his lines or positions on stage mooning after Curulaeril, and Erestor had silently agreed that the relaxing morning in the sunshine was good for both of them even though it meant Bría hogged the bathroom for an hour or more afterwards; Erestor spent the time working on his bo katas, working up a good sweat.

In the shower, he tried very hard to pretend that the blonde haunting his mind was not Glorfindel, though he was unsurprised that the man standing behind him, running lines of kisses – and a few hickeys, of course – down his neck as he stroked Erestor’s cock, an answering hardness pressed against his arse, had Glorfindel’s voice; his colleague – friend? Maybe? – had called earlier, finalising their plans for the evening and Erestor had lost all plans of cool collegial distance to the soft warmth of Glorfindel’s voice when it said his name.

His crush – but it was more than a crush, now, and Erestor knew it – might never be aware of Erestor’s regard, but Erestor would soak up every moment with him nonetheless, ignoring Ecthelion’s existence as long as he might, desperate to keep the illusion of hope alive in his heart. Erestor would settle for friendship. He was good at hiding his emotions; surely, he could manage to see Glorfindel every day without giving away how much he longed for more?

 

When he finally left the flat, looking sharp as a pin as Mama Galadriel would have said, and hopped into the small eco-friendly car to receive Celeborn’s compliments on his attire, Erestor felt confident that he would get through the evening without trouble.

Of course, that was the moment a mental image of Glorfindel in a suit reared its head once more, and Erestor revised his assessment and began praying that the predictable surge of desire he felt at the thought of Glorfindel would not be physically visible when they met again. He had had to stay for the post-play celebrations the night before and though he had intended to catch Glorfindel to invite him along, the blonde had left the theatre by the time Erestor reached the foyer, his text going unanswered. Bría had been slightly disappointed, though it was lost in the general post-success levity of the evening, but Erestor had felt unreasonably glum at the lack of Glorfindel in his immediate vicinity. He wanted to introduce him to his sister-by-heart; Bría’s opinion was one of only three that really mattered in the boyfriend sweepstakes and even though Erestor was determined to be friends rather than lovers with Glorfindel, he wanted to know what she thought of him beyond second-hand accounts.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel stared. It was rude, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. Erestor’s hair, usually pulled back into a long tail at the back of his head, had been left loose over his shoulders, contained by two braids running along his head just above his suddenly delicate-looking ears. The dark silky hair stood out against the rich purple cloth of his long-sleeved tunic, the golden robe that completed his traditional ensemble bringing out rich mahogany tones in the strands.

It was not a look Glorfindel had expected to see at a Mindon University Gala, but Erestor wore it perfectly, the long lines and flowing fabrics suiting him as well as his suits – perhaps better, in some ways, though it, too, sent Glorfindel’s mind into overdrive imagining what lay beneath.

 _I was right to call you ‘The Erector’_ , he thought, smirking wryly at himself but wise enough to keep the thought unspoken. His cock clearly agreed with the assessment, anyhow.

“Erestor!” Glorfindel exclaimed warmly. “Good to see you. You look nice.”

Grabbing one of those pale long-fingered hands in his own, he raised it to his lips in a fit of romantic nonsense that felt wholly justified when he saw the twin spots of colour that appeared in Erestor’s cheeks. Glorfindel grinned. Erestor was just too beautiful.

“Glorfindel,” Erestor replied, the sound of his name in that soft barytone running down Glorfindel’s spine like liquid desire, pooling warmly in his groin. He smiled. “What have you _done_ with that tie?”

Glorfindel’s smile faltered along with his grip on Erestor’s hand, but he did not have time to speak before his voice was utterly stolen by the feel of those soft fingertips fluttering against his throat, swiftly undoing his best attempt at a fishbone knot.

Erestor’s face was drawn in lines of focus, his eyes fixed on Glorfindel’s throat as his fingers surely moved the silken fabric of his tie, gathering and turning with the ease of a man who ties a tie every day – not even hampered by doing it on someone else rather than in a mirror.

Glorfindel felt himself swallow hard, his cock having all kinds of ideas concerning Erestor, silk ties, and his obvious skill with knots, and swelling to the occasion, making him wish that _he_ was the one wearing robes.

 _His lashes are so long._ _And those glasses… still too fucking sexy. Do not think of yourself as a CEO and Erestor as your personal assistant – dammit, why is he so good at this? How am I supposed to_ not _want him when he looks like that,_ touches _me like_ that _? Fuck. Be cool, Glorfindel, STOP LOOKING AT HIS LIPS!... he_ licked _them. That’s just unfair._

Glorfindel held back the whimper that wanted to leave his throat, swallowing hard and regretting that in the next second, the light scrape of one of Erestor’s well-shaped nails against his Adam’s apple sending another line of red-hot fire through his nervous system.

 

* * *

 

 

“There,” Erestor said, giving the knot a small tap of satisfaction, “all better.”

Obviously, it was an unfamiliar knot – _does Glorfindel even wear ties habitually? Fuck don’t think about him wearing nothing but the tie… or using it to bind his wrists to my headboard… Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucketti-fuck._

_His lips look so soft up close, so kissable. Soft and pink, I want to see them swollen from my mouth, or… Fuck!_

Looking up, Erestor immediately regretted – _no I don’t_ – the impulse to fix Glorfindel’s tie, losing himself in the smouldering blue eyes that looked back at him as though the other man was attempting to read his mind… or share every thought in his own; pure desire, Erestor thought, and then Glorfindel blinked and took half a step back, clearing his throat as he touched the knot lightly.

Erestor’s cheeks flamed.

“I’m sorry-” he began apologising for his presumptions, only to falter when Glorfindel spoke at the same time.

“Ah, thank you, I err… I’m not good at that. Ecthelion laughed when I told him I’d be wearing a tie,” Glorfindel chuckled wryly, his eyes everywhere but Erestor’s face, and _that_ name hanging in the air between them like a talisman.

Erestor nodded dumbly.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , his mind chanted, hardly leaving him enough wherewithal to accept the arm Glorfindel politely offered him, falling numbly into step in what he knew was meant to be Ecthelion’s place and feeling like a third-rate impostor. Beside him, Glorfindel walked ramrod straight, as though they were heading into battle; obviously embarrassed to be seen in a moment of lustful insanity and missing his boyfriend, Erestor thought waspishly, castigating himself for his unkind thoughts in the next moment, but unable to quell the unbearable wave of jealousy he felt at the thought of Ecthelion being in _his_ place.

_Fuck._

 

* * *

 

 

_He has the posture and grace of a born dancer. I wonder if he’d let me ask him to dance with me…_

Erestor’s smooth gait, graceful like a big cat, seemed to sync perfectly with Glorfindel’s steps, making him more than aware of the gentle touch of his hand resting on his forearm as they stepped into the ballroom together. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to forget the coolly measuring gaze of the older man who had driven Erestor here – Bría’s father, by the looks of him – and pretended that Erestor was truly _his_.

The envy monster in his gut purred at the thought, curled up like a cat lapping at cream.

Glorfindel was unfazed by the beauty of the ballroom of Mindon – he had come here before, as a child – and the grandeur held much less sway over his mind than the lovely creature walking beside him.

“We shall have to share the first dance,” Erestor informed him, startling Glorfindel with the realisation that they had not only reached the dance floor but would be expected to _dance_ , too; the only ones who seemed excused from the opening dance were people like Father, whose bad leg seemed more painful than usual tonight; he was leaning heavily on his cane, but he smiled fleetingly at Glorfindel when he caught his eye.

He did not expect how relieved that would make him feel, Father’s silent approval joining forces with his own giddiness until Glorfindel wasn’t sure he’d remember the steps to the Waltz for the Moon that the orchestra was playing. Flowing into Erestor’s arms, he found himself competently lead around the floor, enjoying the gentle warmth of Erestor’s body moving with his own, keeping some distance between them to conceal any effects the mouth-watering scent of his cologne had in Glorfindel’s trousers.

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel was a good dancer, Erestor realised almost as soon as he took the first step; he had worried that he would falter at the deceptively simple steps and had assumed the leading position in an attempt to forestall any difficulties, but Glorfindel kept his eyes locked on Erestor’s face, not even a single glance down at their feet as he led him around the floor. The light – candles, a sight that never failed to steal his breath when he first entered the Gala – from the crystal chandeliers gleamed in his golden hair. Glorfindel’s eyelashes, light enough to seem almost invisible from further away were long enough to flutter becomingly at him. His hands were warm, the fingers of the hand Erestor held lightly calloused; he wondered what kind of work had created them.

Glorfindel’s mouth formed a lovely soft smile, clearly enjoying himself. Erestor had the feeling that Glorfindel rather enjoyed being led from time to time, and the thought was far headier than it should be, making the tantalizing images reappear in his mind. A strong need to lean in and steal a kiss from those soft pink lips filled him; Glorfindel’s sparkling eyes sparked the urge to feel those lashes flutter against his skin. His nose, strong and with a small bump as though it had once been broken, had a few tiny freckles scattered across the bridge and the temptation to kiss every single one only made Erestor’s heart beat faster.

Erestor had not expected Glorfindel to take the implied offer of swapping roles that marked the halfway point – no matter the composition of the couple involved, which had given him some _highly_ entertaining mental images of Bría and Doctor White over the years – but he accepted the switch effortlessly, feeling himself relax seamlessly into Glorfindel’s hold and marvelling at the easy connection between them.

 

* * *

 

 

Halfway through the traditional dance, Glorfindel felt proud that he managed to complete the role swap, his arm around Erestor’s back bringing them back close together, feeling Erestor’s light puffs of breath whisper across his lips, minty with the scent of toothpaste. He felt Erestor’s surprise, light and fleeting, but held him just that bit tighter in response, keeping the dance moving. He smiled, watching the way Erestor relaxed into a soft laugh, his eyes sparkling with joy under the lights.

Carefully moving through the steps, guiding Erestor with the light pressure of his hand and small movements of his hips, Glorfindel kept his hand from sliding further down even though he could not help but trace the intricate pattern of silk embroidery slowly with his fingertips. Resisting the temptation to find out if Erestor’s backside was as spectacular as it looked made him slightly distracted, but the temptation was not enough to let him forget that such touches did not belong to _him – no matter how much I wish they did_.

They twirled onwards; the ends of Erestor’s hair feathered along his fingers, set on wreaking havoc on his mind when he considered what such long hair could be used for, wanting to wrap the mass of it around his fist and tug Erestor even closer.

Finishing the dance with an old-fashioned low dip – he had practised it with a former partner, usually ending in a smouldering kiss – Glorfindel wanted to kiss Erestor, staring into his soft silvery eyes and wishing beyond wishing that those temptingly glistening lips were his to claim in the kiss he felt hanging in the air between them, heavier now than it had been outside with Erestor’s fingers at his throat, but kept at bay through sheer force of will.

_His lips look so soft. So kissable._

Erestor’s delectable lips parted slightly, gleaming softly beneath the lights of the ballroom.

Glorfindel never wanted to let the dance end.

_I want to kiss you…_

He wanted to do it over – and over again.

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor stared up, up into that face that haunted his dreams and fantasies, one hand resting lightly on Glorfindel’s shoulder, resisting the temptation to squeeze and feel the strength that held him effortlessly off the floor.

_Kiss me._

The fingers of his left hand were curled beneath the silk ribbon – matching his tie, Erestor noted – that held back Glorfindel’s hair in a short queue, tangled with the short hairs at the nape of his neck, moving almost imperceptibly through the strands just to feel that liquid gold twine around his digits in a small way, promising pleasures he would not receive.

_He is going to kiss me._

Absolute certainty washed through him in an instant, and for a moment Erestor wanted nothing more than to feel those soft-looking lips with his own.

_Kiss me, love, I want you to._

A small part of him marvelled at the way he instinctively trusted Glorfindel not to drop him, but it was drowned out by the largest part of him begging Glorfindel to put him out of this sweet agony of waiting for his kiss.

_Your eyes are water and I’m already drowning, please. Just… please. Kiss me._

His eyes, caught by the eyes above him – dark blue, ringed in darker blues and flecked with lighter blues in a mesmerising kaleidoscope of blue and burning with desire – could not roam across the rest of that face, but he knew its lines already, one finger twitching to lift, trace those wheat-gold brows, the sharp ridge of Glorfindel’s nose, or the curvy bow of his mouth – Erestor had never though about why they called it a Cupid’s bow, but he knew no, watching those soft pink lips parted slightly around a breath that seemed to take forever.

_Please kiss me. Oh gods, please._

 

* * *

 

 

Someone cleared their throat, breaking the spell of Erestor’s eyes and making Glorfindel stand up straight, aware enough of his surroundings to keep Erestor from stumbling even as he took a step away from his body, those tempting lips parted as Erestor breathed deeply.

Glancing across the room, Glorfindel’s eyes were caught by Father’s raised eyebrow, Morfind’s glass tilted in a knowing manner.

Glorfindel swallowed.

That look only ever meant one thing.

 _Busted_.

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor’s mind was spinning in a fog of lust and anguish, feeling those strong arms leave him with a sense of almost desperate longing to feel them back around him, to press himself against those tempting planes of flesh and muscle, to put his mark on that fair skin in ways that could not be denied.

The earlier image of Glorfindel, tied spread-eagled to his bed, writhing in pleasure as Erestor applied all the considerable skill of his mouth to the task of making him come undone, returned to his mind then, making him swallow a sudden flood of saliva.

He felt grateful he had decided to go for traditional robes; trousers would have given away his thoughts long before now. As it was, he’d still need some way of cooling down after that… seduction on the dancefloor, and swiftly accepted the champagne flute handed to him by a passing waitress.

“Professor Cummings, what a splendid figure you cut tonight!” The loud voice of Professor Durin from the neighbouring Mindon Cemeno – the Tower of Earth, which held the geo-scientific disciplines and seemed mostly inhabited by burly bearded men who threw some of the best parties on campus – to the Teciéo made Erestor nearly choke on his drink when it accompanied a hearty pat on his shoulder. “Where is the lovely Miss Celebrían though? I’ve a bet on with Náin says she can dip ‘im like your fellow here!”

“He is not --- we’re not---,” Erestor tried, spinning around to glare at the shorter man who was grinning at him. “This is Glorfindel,” he finally settled on, gesturing at him. “He’s the part-timer that replaced Dís! I’m just… making introductions?”

Hating that the last part sounded like a question – and, based on the glimmer in Professor Durin’s kind eyes, would never be believed to be a truthful statement – Erestor sighed at himself.

“Glorfindel, this is Professor Durin, from the Geological Department.”

“Oy Will!” Professor Durin bellowed over his shoulder, waving at a stocky bloke with hair a few shades darker than Glorfindel’s own and a peculiar mix of blue and green eyes that made him very striking. “Come meet the bloke subbing for your missus!”

 

* * *

 

 

Glorfindel felt suddenly popular, being whirled from one conversation with a bearded science nut to the next, Erestor’s calm voice making introductions and forging links between the people he met that Glorfindel would have forgotten by morning, most of his memory committed to the storage of minute impressions of Erestor himself. Another part of him was equally devoted to the art of not grimacing every time someone asked after Celebrían – Bría was apparently her nickname – or wondered why Erestor was alone.

“Do you feel like meeting a few more people?” Erestor asked softly, once all the guys who apparently belonged to various departments around campus but also seemed interrelated in a complicated web of cousins that Glorfindel was more than a little awed Erestor could keep straight.

“Sure, why not?” Glorfindel replied, silently wondering how many more people he’d have to pretend to remember come Monday.

Erestor’s smile made every potential ‘I vaguely recognise you but I truthfully have no idea who you are’-grimace-and-wave lurking in the future worth it, and Glorfindel couldn’t help but return it, silently grateful that Ecthelion was the only one who’d realise _just_ how besotted his expression likely had become.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ahh, Erestor!” Morfind Lávar said, smiling. “I wondered when you would come find me, lad. What have you done with the lovely Miss Celebrían?”

“Bría is busy with her play, Sir,” Erestor replied respectfully, accepting a flute of champagne from the waiter passing him just as he stopped Glorfindel by one of his favourite guests. “They opened last night; I shall have a ticket set aside for you?”

“Kind of you, Erestor, do give her my best regards.”

“She asked me to pass you hers, Sir, and her regrets that she would miss out asking you to dance with her,” Erestor smiled.

Morfind Lávar laughed loudly, tapping the fine parquet floor with his silver-topped mahogany cane.

“An offer I must – as always – regretfully decline – but I see you have found a dancing partner of equal skill for the evening?” he said, nodding at Glorfindel.

Erestor smiled back. “Glorfindel Lysild, Sir,” he introduced, “a recent addition to staff at Teciéo. He teaches Sociology.”

“An admirable pursuit, I’m sure,” Morfind Lávar replied, holding out his hand for Glorfindel to shake, “though I fear my own talents lie in other realms of learning than yours, Mister Lysild.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _Does Erestor know_ everyone _here?_ flitted through Glorfindel’s mind, staring at Father’s fond smile – genuine, no less – and felt firmly convinced that he had fallen and hit his head or entered an alternate dimension because _how is Erestor on such friendly terms with Father? Father is making jokes, even! What is_ happening??

Glorfindel was frozen, staring at Father whose lips were moving although the words made little sound or sense to Glorfindel.

Erestor’s sharp elbow startled him enough to jolt him out of the fog, belatedly clasping Father’s hand and offering a complete non sequitur that made Erestor look askance at him, though Father’s smile remained fond and amused.

Glorfindel’s mind was reeling. He barely heard Father change to the topic of poetry, though he was not surprised to find Erestor knowledgeable in the field too.

“I’m going to get a drink,” he blurted out, needing to be _away_ from this odd scene where Erestor and Father were friends immediately – at least until he could make sense of it. Unbidden, a line from one of his own favourite poems floated through his mind as he turned on his heel, stalking towards a waiter conveniently located _across_ the large room.

 _For some moments in Life, there are no Words_.

 

* * *

 

 

“A particular friend of yours?” Lord Morfind asked, though not in a way that made Erestor feel that the older man disapproved. The thought still made him blush.

“Just a colleague, sir,” he replied, “but maybe he will be a friend…” Erestor would _try_ , certainly, though he thought it might be better to cut Glorfindel out of his life entirely until he could look at his stupid soft hair without wanting to play with it, or see those fingers grip a glass of tea without imagining the way that hand would feel gripping _him_. If that happened, perhaps he would be able to ignore the way every conversation he had with the blonde only made him want to know more, want to explore the mind behind those captivating blue eyes.

“Be good for you to have someone, Erestor,” Morfind replied gently, “this past year has been difficult, I know, but perhaps you are ready to look for love again.”

Erestor groaned, and Morfind chuckled as usual. “You’re not going to offer to set me up with that son I’m still not convinced you _have_ , are you?” he asked, not for the first time tempted to take Morfind up on the offer if only just to make him stop talking about his reclusive-but-intriguing offspring – or get his own mind off of unattainable prospects with golden hair and lovely eyes.

“As you have asked me not to, I shan’t,” Morfind said, his blue eyes twinkling, “though I still think you would like my Xanthus.”

“No army blokes, Sir,” Erestor said patiently, repeating an old argument they both enjoyed. “I’ve told you. No excessive travelling for work, no army, and preferably someone who likes poetry.”

Morfind’s eyes glittered at him. “Xanthus has left the army, now,” he said quietly.

Erestor put his hand on the older man’s, wrapped around the head of his cane, and squeezed gently.

“I am happy for you,” he said, meaning it. Their relationship was not too close, but he had been very fond of the older man ever since Morfind awarded him first prize at a Young Poets Competition held by his publishing house in honour of his late wife, and struck up a conversation about his winning poetry with recently orphaned teenage Erestor that had evolved into a steady acquaintanceship over the years.

“Thank you; it is a great relief to me to have him back in the country – even if he chooses to live in Tirion,” Morfind smiled, picking a small morsel on a wooden skewer from a passing tray. “How is your new collection of poems coming along, if I may ask?”

Erestor’s cheeks heated. He had tried writing poetry, but the only images that seemed to come to him when he sat down with his ink pen and his notebook were ones of Glorfindel; he had a series of odes to the Sun as a result, but nothing worth showing to an editor – they were too much like tiny love-notes and Erestor refused to admit that was what they were.

“You write poetry?” Glorfindel suddenly asked, appearing over his shoulder and startling Erestor slightly.

Accepting the flute of champagne Glorfindel proffered, Erestor once more found himself trapped by the intense blue of his gaze, and simply nodded dumbly.

“No need to be modest, my boy,” Morfind chimed in, proud as a peacock, “young Erestor here – did you know he is a descendant of e.e. cummings? – has published several books of poetry with Lórien Press; I consider it my great fortune to have discovered his talent at such a young age!”

“Really?” Glorfindel asked.

Erestor flushed, feeling warm at all the attention. He nodded again.

“I wrote my first anthology when I was 15,” he demurred, “after my parents died.” Feeling a shard of grief pass through him at the thought and wondering at the mirror to it he saw in Glorfindel’s eyes, Erestor shrugged lightly, never one to boast about his own accomplishments. “Lord Lávar found it worth publishing.”

“Erestor won our Lilírë Poetry Grant that year,” Morfind said, patting him on the back and making Erestor duck his head, slightly embarrassed but also pleased by his praise. “Using the penname Victor Summers.”

“I remember that!” Glorfindel exclaimed loudly. “It was called Forests of Words. I particularly liked Still Water and Ammë.” Clearing his throat softly, he fidgeted with the end of his tie. “They were… very lovely.”

“You’ve _read it?_ ” Erestor boggled, staring at him. A light flush appeared in Glorfindel’s cheeks.

“My father… is involved with Lórien Press,” he offered, looking slightly sheepish, “he -- he snuck a copy into my sack before I left for bootcamp…” Scratching the back of his neck lightly, he chuckled. “I read it… ahh, I think it was an attempt to feel connected to home, somehow.” The blush darkened adorably across his cheekbones, making Erestor’s heart beat faster and his mouth water.

“Thank you!” Erestor replied fervently, vacillating between the voice in his head – or heart? – that wanted to see Glorfindel’s admission as proof that he found Erestor lovely, and the part of him that wanted to melt into a small puddle of goo at the praise for his work. _Glorfindel even remembered the_ titles _of his poems!_

“One of my own personal favourites,” Morfind added, “but you youngsters shouldn’t waste the night with an old-timer like me – I’m sure you’ve more than the one dance to get to!”

Erestor felt a light push between his shoulder blades and suddenly found himself in Glorfindel’s arms once more, yet against caught by those blue eyes; softer now but no less intense.

“Err – yes,” he tried, feeling the warmth of Glorfindel’s large hands at his sides, resting lightly just at his waist, and worrying that his face was too easy to read – and very aware that Morfind was watching them; Glorfindel might not have heard him list his desirable traits in a partner, but _Morfind_ certainly knew just how many boxes Glorfindel had just ticked for him.

A small part of Erestor wondered if Xanthus Lávarchil could ever top the man who was currently leading him onto the dancefloor.

He did not think it likely.

 

* * *

 

 

“Admit it,” Glorfindel said, “you did not think I could dance.” He winked at Erestor, executing another flawless turn.

Erestor’s laughter at his cheek rolled down his spine like warm chocolate sauce – even more pleasant than the first time he’d heard the sound.

Glorfindel’s grin grew.

“I worried _momentarily_ ,” Erestor corrected, smirking back at him. “After all, you clearly had never tied that tie before; how was I to know whether you could dance in a ballroom?” Tilting his head, his smirk softened into a genuine smile. “But I’m pleased to be proven wrong.”

The warmth that filled his veins like bubbles of sunlight seemed to make him light enough that Glorfindel wondered that he did not simply float away.

“There’s more to me than meets the eye,” Glorfindel replied loftily, unable to keep from grinning as he spun Erestor away, just for the exquisite torture of spinning him back into his arms.

Erestor laughed again.

“Perhaps, Mr Lysild,” he purred, which was too much and not enough all at once.

“Glorfindel,” Glorfindel interrupted, “please.”

“As you wish… Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel shivered, tightening his hold just a little in response to the way Erestor’s voice coated his name like liquid honey.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are you hungry?” Erestor asked, rising from the formal bow that ended the dance they had joined with a surprising lack of fumbling considering he had been nearly pushed into Glorfindel’s arms by Morfind Lávar; he would have to come up with a suitable return of the older man’s assistance – if he could ever figure out whether he ought to go for revenge or gratitude.

“Famished!” Glorfindel replied, his smile too brilliant to be real. “There was a nice selection of canapé’s and other nibbles on the assorted trays though. We could have a look?”

“This looks interesting, I suppose,” Erestor said, holding up the morsel of food with a critical eye. “Try this,” he added, holding one small triangle of what looked like crispy cracker topped with small fluffs of a white creamy substance, a sliver of asparagus head and a couple of yellow pearl like beads that shimmered slightly in the light.

“What is it?” Glorfindel wondered, though he took the small hors d’ oeuvres that Erestor had pointed out.

“No idea,” he laughed, popping a cracker of his own into his mouth. “But it’s quite tasty – a bit salty on the tongue, perhaps, the cracker.”

“Salty, hmm?” Glorfindel hummed thoughtfully, and Erestor should not be thinking about the taste of _Glorfindel_ at those words. “I don’t mind a little salt.”

“…” whatever Erestor had planned to say died unspoken, lost in watching Glorfindel’s lips wrap around the tips of his fingers, making the small piece of food disappear with a groan of obvious enjoyment.

“This is _good_ ,” he groaned, snatching up another cracker and popping it into his mouth.  

Erestor felt bad for being jealous of a _cracker_ of all things, but he couldn’t help it, wishing those lips would touch _him_ like that.

And then Glorfindel licked his fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

“Excuse me a moment,” Erestor murmured, and then he was gone, leaving Glorfindel slightly confused but more than willing to take advantage of the undisturbed moment to watch the way Erestor’s arse moved beneath those purple robes, wanting little more than to slide his hands down the tempting curves.

“You make a handsome couple.”

Glorfindel stiffened at the sound of Father’s quiet words, trying to get the heat in his cheeks under control.

“We’re not a couple, Father,” he hissed, dropping his own voice low to avoid Morfind realising just how much he’d _like_ to be Erestor’s… fuck, he’d even go for the word _boyfriend_ if it meant Erestor’s hand was his to hold.

“Yet.” Annoyingly cheerfully, Morfind snatched up one of the crackers and tilted his head in goodbye before returning to his spot overlooking the dancefloor, his cane tapping rhythmically on the herringbone parquet.

Glorfindel followed him with his eyes, suddenly noting the increase in grey that had appeared in Morfind’s dark hair, going silver along his temples. Morfind’s back was still straight, his posture unmarred by the cane that helped him walk, but the sight made some part of Glorfindel’s heart clench.

Morfind looked lonely, even though there had been few moments all night that he had been unaccompanied by someone, and Glorfindel wondered if it was time to start easing himself into the role he had been born to.

Perhaps he needed to stop running from his name.

Stop running from his past.

Imagining living in Lávar House full-time still made him uncomfortable but imagining Erestor living there with him was far more tolerable; it might even be fun, showing him all the paintings of past Lávars hung in the vast ancestral home.

Lost in that pleasant daydream, Glorfindel did not at first recognise the flash of purple in his peripheral vision, floating along the dancefloor.

And then he noticed Erestor’s lean lines, his arms around some woman Glorfindel did not recognise, her golden hair turning silver in his mind as the pleasant images of holding Erestor’s hand and walking through Lávar House, dancing across the parquets there in their socks and laughing together disappeared like smoke. Glorfindel’s happy daydream was viciously torn apart by an imaginary Celebrían stealing _his_ place in Erestor’s arms and dancing off with him into the sunset, laughing happily all the while. His thoughts twisted and spun, growing sharper teeth with every smile crossing Erestor’s face, obviously enjoying leading the blonde lady around the floor until that jealousy he had conquered earlier was back in full force and the forgotten cracker had turned into a mush of crumbs in his clenched fist.

 

* * *

 

 

“What a handsome man you’ve landed for the evening, Erestor Cummings,” Vivienne Swann purred, smirking up at him. “Or is it a more permanent prospect?”

Erestor chuckled ruefully. “I wish, he admitted, “but Glorfindel’s unfortunately unavailable – he’s got a boyfriend.”

“Ahh. Well, you ought to look for a man like that.” Doing her best attempt at winking once more – somehow Mrs Swann was unable to wink with only one eye, and mostly looked like a weird owl when she tried – his former dancing instructor continued, “I saw you out here, earlier.”

“Oh?” Erestor frowned lightly. He was sure that his infatuation with Glorfindel had been plain to someone who knew him well, and Mrs Swann had been the one to _teach_ him and Bría to dance – she knew his physical cues.

“My dear, you looked positively smitten,” Mrs Swann informed him. “Quite a sight, actually; it was like you’d found your perfect dance partner.”

Erestor knew he was blushing, but the knowing did not seem to make the warmth in his cheeks dissipate. Mrs Swann chuckled.

“See, darling?” she whispered sotto voce when they danced near to where he had abandoned Glorfindel in an attempt to get his libido under control, “He can’t take his eyes off you, either.”

“You’re wrong,” It was less than a protest and more plaintive than he’d have liked, but Erestor knew it to be true, “Glorfindel _has_ a lover. He can’t want me.”

“Well,” Mrs Swann said, letting him lead her away among the other dancers, “he’s not being exactly subtle about wanting to take my place – and or do me some injury for the chance… are you sure?”

Erestor nodded tersely, deciding to ignore her remark entirely. Mrs Swann might be familiar with _him_ but she had never met Glorfindel and her observations were clearly false, Erestor thought, glancing back at his crush and catching sight of Glorfindel leaning towards Dr White in an attempt to converse with him – not even a glance in the direction of the dancefloor.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a long interminable time before Erestor found him again – it was less than an hour, but it felt _long_ to Glorfindel – flushed with the pleasure of dancing.

“Hello Glorfindel!” he greeted, smiling Glorfindel’s favourite shy smile and pushing those stupid glasses back up his nose. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

“Had fun on the dancefloor?” With Herculean effort, Glorfindel managed to make the words come out flat rather than the snide jealous hiss that wanted to escape him, but Erestor’s bright smile dimmed anyhow, making him feel like a total arse.

“Yes,” he nodded, “Mrs Swann used to teach Bría and I ballroom dancing.” Turning, Erestor waved lightly at the older woman, her hair more grey than blonde now Glorfindel looked at her properly. The sight of the stately Mrs Swann did not remove his mental image of Erestor dancing into rose-coloured sunsets with Celebrían in his arms.

Glorfindel scowled, though mostly at himself. Mrs Swann blinked at him.

“You are a good dancer,” he uttered instead, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other and wondering why he _always_ said the wrong thing in Erestor’s presence – and wishing that he had the nerve to say ‘Ditch your girlfriend and marry _me_ instead.’ – or something to that effect.

“Not bad yourself,” Erestor replied mildly, turning to accept another tiny bit of food – prosciutto wrapped around a slice of melon – but his posture had gone slightly tense.

Glorfindel was too distracted mourning the feel of relaxed Erestor in his arms to fully appreciate the way the long piece of melon disappeared between his lips, but he did commit the way his tongue flicked out to lick up a stray droplet of juice to memory, knowing that in his fantasies it’d be a rather different _juice_ glistening on Erestor’s lips.

 

At the end of the evening, Glorfindel wanted to share the last dance, but Erestor had been consumed by speaking with an older man about early 19th century poetry for twenty minutes and so he stayed silent, feeling Erestor's voice wash over his soul as he recited a famous poem from memory.

“No, I think Shelley deserves more credit as composer of love poetry,” Erestor said, obviously enjoying the verbal spar with the older Professor whose name escaped Glorfindel. “I memorised this one when I was younger, for example:

 _The fountains mingle with the river,_  
_And the rivers with the ocean;_  
_The winds of heaven mix forever,_  
_With a sweet emotion;_  
_Nothing in the world is single;_  
_All things by a law divine_  
_In one another’s being mingle;–_  
_Why not I with thine?_

 _See! the mountains kiss high heaven,_  
_And the waves clasp one another;_  
_No sister flower would be forgiven,_  
_If it disdained it’s brother;_  
_And the sunlight clasps the earth,_  
_And the moonbeams kiss the sea;–_  
_What are all these kissings worth,_  
_If thou kiss not me?”_

For one shining moment, Glorfindel pretended that Erestor had memorised such words for _him_ – a vision of lying beneath the old tree in the park at Lávar House with his head in Erestor’s lap and listening to that voice tell him poetry floated through his mind – and then he realised the most likely reason Erestor would have memorised such words at all and the image burst like a soap bubble. _I would kiss you_ , he thought sadly, _if you were mine to kiss; I would kiss you better than anyone has ever done._

“Perhaps that is so, Professor Cummings,” the old geezer replied haughtily, “though I am more a fan of Yeats, myself:

 _When you are old and grey and full of sleep,_  
_And nodding by the fire, take down this book,_  
_And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_  
_Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;_

 _How many loved your moments of glad grace,_  
_And loved your beauty with love false or true,_  
_But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_  
_And loved the sorrows of your changing face;_

 _And bending down beside the glowing bars,_  
_Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled_  
_And paced upon the mountains overhead_  
_And hid his face amid a crowd of stars._ ”

“I think _my_ favourite love poem is this one,” Glorfindel heard himself say, the verses appearing in his mind as though he had stumbled upon the old book only yesterday even if it had been twenty years since he’d read that book of oddly written poetry that still seemed to speak to his soul in ways he did not fully understand.

“ _love is more thicker than forget_  
_more thinner than recall_  
_more seldom than a wave is wet_  
_more frequent than to fail_

 _it is most mad and moonly_  
_and less it shall unbe_  
_than all the sea which only_  
_is deeper than the sea_

 _love is less always than to win_  
_less never than alive_  
_less bigger than the least begin_  
_less littler than forgive_

 _it is most sane and sunly_  
_and more it cannot die_  
_than all the sky which only_  
_is higher than the sky”_

It was only when he caught the blush appearing in Erestor’s cheeks that he remembered the poet’s name.

_e.e. cummings._

_Shit_.

 

* * *

 

 

Erestor flushed, feeling oddly proud of his ancestor and at the same time strangely hot from the way Glorfindel was looking straight at him, as though trying to make him read more into the recital than he already did.

 _I want those words to be for_ me, he thought, longing to reward Glorfindel with a kiss for his sweet bashfulness when he blushed, looking down at his shoes like he’d been caught out somehow. _I want_ you _to be for me._

“A fine choice, Glorfindel,” he nodded, imagining what some of his _own_ poems would sound like in Glorfindel’s deep golden voice, his mind pairing it with the feel of his strong hands roaming Erestor’s body – unhampered by clothes or modesty, and free to seek out all the places that would make him groan.

“Thank you, Erestor,” Glorfindel replied softly, those blue eyes bluer than blue when he smiled. “Perhaps you will lend me a volume of your Shelley at some point?”

“Of course!” Erestor blurted, thinking about those fingers caressing the spine of his books – _his spine_ – and feeling leather – _skin_ – beneath his touch, warm and supple. _Why do you have to be so bloody perfect?_

 

They had agreed to share a taxi home, but Erestor was beginning to regret that decision; Glorfindel had not become less tempting as the night wore on, and knowing how well he danced only made Erestor’s fantasies of how he’d be as a _lover_ increase in potency. He had decided he was too adult to wank in the bathroom of a Gala, but it had been a close call; by the time they reached his front door, he’d be filled with that same pulsing need to touch, to _devour_.

Sitting next to him in a darkened cab, so close and yet so untouchable was _torture_.

He only wished the journey was longer, the sweet agony prolonged even if it would be left unfulfilled by even the smallest of kisses to sate the lust that still coursed through his system.

 

* * *

 

 

“Goodnight, Erestor,” Glorfindel said quietly, committing Erestor’s soft smile to memory, “Thank you for going with me.”

“Entirely my pleasure,” Erestor promised, and Glorfindel felt his heart give a squeeze at the way his eyes sparkled. “Goodnight Glorfindel.”

Closing the door of the cab, Erestor treated him to the view of that perfect arse as he walked up the stairs, the fabric moving in purple gleams of light from the nearest street lamps with each step. At the top, he put his key in the lock and turned, waving at Glorfindel as the cab pulled away from the kerb.

“You oughta kissed him,” the cabbie in the front opined. Glorfindel scowled at him. “You can’t claim to not have wanted to, mate – and that bloke woulda invited you in for more if I’m any judge.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Glorfindel replied frostily, turning back to the window and cursing silently when they turned a corner and Erestor was out of sight.

 _Not out of mind, though_.

Loosening the knot in his tie and pulling the silk free with a whisper, he once more felt the ghost of Erestor’s touch at his throat, saw again the focused expression followed by the soft satisfied smile on his face. He wanted to dip his mouth to taste that smile, steal it in a kiss and let the world burn around them unnoticed.

The image of Erestor’s inviting lips lingered all the way home, the throbbing between his legs not at all lessened by his feeble protesting at the cabbie’s words.


	8. September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September 11 & 12 in Umbar and in Tirion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes some inspiration to Gemennair's Modern Glorfindel, found [here](https://gemennair.tumblr.com/post/181352825688/he-was-tall-and-straight-his-hair-was-of-shining) which feels like someone opened a window in my head and took a snapshot of Glorfindel ;)

# The Morning After – September 11-12

Indilë woke slowly, feeling curiously level despite the night’s upsets, wrapped in the soothing safety of Ecthelion’s arms, his breathing soft and even, deeply asleep, moving a lock of her hair slightly with each exhale. She had ended up on her side, Ecthelion’s knees snug behind hers and his front pressed against her back. It was odd, she thought, how the feeling of being so restrained had once been a prelude to pain and fear, but now her heart beat steadily in her breast, sleep clinging to her mind and making her drowsy, leaving the memories beneath the surface. Moving back against Ecthelion, she stiffened in slight surprise at the feel of him against her arse, barred by fabric, but so warm and _present_ that she could not ignore it.

Behind her, Ecthelion groaned sleepily, nuzzling into her neck. Indilë tried not to stiffen but her back tensed automatically when he pressed himself against her. Trying to focus on the softness of his beard against her skin, Indilë forced herself to relax, moving her hips slightly away from his as she reminded herself that it was _Ecthelion_ lying behind her, not… someone else.

_He’s too sweet for me._

The thought flashed through her head in an instant, spurred by the confused but suddenly hurt look on Ecthelion’s face that reminded her of the way she had screamed at him last night. Closing her eyes, she flushed. _Did I really do that… Damnit!_

“You smell nice,” he mumbled drowsily, the arm wrapped around her middle squeezing for a moment before going lax again.

Indilë wondered if he could feel her heart racing, a swift staccato of remembered dread filling her chest.

“Smell good Indie,” Ecthelion continued, drawling the words out against her neck, his lips pressing randomly against her skin. “Always smell nice. Also yesterday…. Taste good?”

“Taste?!” Indilë choked out, breaking free of his hold by turning around so swiftly she had to wince at the pain of pulling her hair free from under Ecthelion’s head.

 

The fogs cleared for Ecthelion, whose own face did a passable imitation of a tomato, trying to inch his lower half away from the tempting curves of her legs.

“I’m sorry – that was totally in-” he began, just as Indilë opened her mouth.

“I’m sorry I freaked out at you.” Sheepishly, she looked away from his too-handsome-for-her-own-good face, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I know that… that wasn’t _you_ …” Biting her lip, she dared look back at him, wanting to weep at the shattering of her impossible daydream that there might ever be more between them but feeling like she’d worn out her quota of crying on Ecthelion with her abysmal behaviour the night before.

Ecthelion moved; the sudden absence of warmth made her keenly aware that the erection she’d felt pressed against her arse before had not diminished even slightly. Blushing, she dared not hope, dared not believe that he might have been thinking of _her_.

“It’s… it’s fine, Indie,” Ecthelion mumbled, his voice hoarse, and pulled a hand through his hair, making the strands stick up in haphazard way that should not make her want to smooth them down for hours while kissing every thought from his mind. “Don’t think about it.” Rolling onto his back he stretched, pulling the blanket taut. Indilë blushed, darting a glance down then snapped her eyes back to his face. Her blush deepened.

Ecthelion bent his legs, giving her a slightly sheepish grin.

“Sorry…” he tried, “I can’t really… control… _that_.”

Part of him wondered how he’d regressed to adolescent levels of smooth when he had never before had a problem talking to women, but the rest of him had long-since rationalised that soft and tousled by sleep was a powerful look on Indilë and made no less potent for the fact that it was his face that had mussed up her hair like that, his arms that had been wrapped around her curves all night.

None of these thoughts had any diminishing impact on the situation within his blankets, of course.

“It’s… fine,” Indilë replies, swallowing her nerves. Ecthelion wouldn’t attack her or do anything she did not invite, she knew, feeling herself relax into the sheets, leftover adrenaline still running through her veins and making her feel too hot. It wasn’t the first time a man had displayed such a reaction in her presence… though she didn’t usually react like _this_.

_Just a normal morning reaction, Indilë, don’t read into it. Don’t… Oh._

Sitting up straight, Indilë buried her face against her knees, hoping the blanket would hide her blushing until it passed.

_I am a grown woman. I am a grown **independent** woman and I do not want him to react that way to **me**._

Even in her own mind, her voice was less than convincing; Indilë groaned at herself.

 

The red hair rippled down her back; it was longer than he’d expected, Ecthelion realised, wondering what was going through her head. Surely, she couldn’t think he’d… do something to her?

The thought was almost enough to make him sick, the tension in his groin deflating in moments. “I’d never… hurt you,” he promised, surprising even himself with the fervour of his voice, daring to put a hand on her shoulder and feeling slightly emboldened when she did not immediately shrug it off.

Indilë chuckled ruefully. “I know, Ecto… you’re a good man.” Turning her head, her cheeks still flush, she gave him a small smile. “I’m sorry for yelling at you last night. That… thing… just – it brought up some things I thought I’d left behind, you know?” Indilë sighed, resting her chin on her knees and staring at nothing in particular for a moment. “My… ex. He was… well, he was akin to the creep from last night, even if it took me far too long to realise that he was…” swallowing hard, she continued shakily, “ _abusing_ me.”

Ecthelion had never truly wanted to kill someone, but he thought he could quite happily murder whoever had put those shadows in her blue eyes.

 

 

Erestor dreamt of kisses and blue eyes, dreamt of dancing to soft music, holding and being held by Glorfindel’s arms.

He woke up in a foul mood, hornier and filled with more yearning than he’d ever felt before, spitefully ignoring the throbbing in his groin as he got out of bed. Hanging up his purple robes properly, left over the back of a chair when he fell into bed last night, Erestor shook his head at himself. Wandering into the kitchen, he made himself breakfast, unwillingly amused by the groan that floated out through Bría’s door at the smell of bacon frying.

“Hungover, dearest?” he asked, purposely making his voice as cheerful and peppy as it would go, and ignoring the small voice that told him that he would be just as affected if he had indulged in the temptation of drinking away memories of Glorfindel’s smiles rather than take them to bed with him.

“’uck off, Esto,” came her mumbled reply, the thud of a pillow hitting her door a clear indication that his usual teasing would not be welcome. Erestor smirked to himself – there was something so _delicious_ about being the not-hungover person when someone else was suffering well-earned consequences of inebriation – and plated up his eggs.

“Want a bite?” he offered nonetheless, not surprised when Bría just groaned at him wordlessly.

When he had finished his filling breakfast – and had more than one thought about a different sort of ‘filling breakfast’ that made him at once hot under his thin t-shirt and exasperated with himself – Erestor pulled a batch of essays from his satchel and set to marking the dismal drivel produced by his first-year students with a groan.

 

 

Glorfindel slept in late, blinking one eye blearily open at the buzz of his phone on his nightstand but decided not to check the message. He had half a deal with Gothmog to get a good turn about the ring in today but the state of his head told him it’d be wiser to skip that as a morning deal and reschedule for Monday afternoon. Giving a half-hearted glare at the glass beside the phone, dregs of amber-coloured liquid still in the bottom, Glorfindel turned over, falling back asleep in minutes.

The next time he woke up, he felt too gross to keep lying in bed, whipping the covers off with a slight wince at the pungency of his own sweat-and-cum-sticky body. Stripping the sheets off with military efficiency, Glorfindel tossed the lot into the washer before jumping into the shower, feeling that he’d deserved every moment of freezingly chilly water for the way he’d abused Ecthelion’s third-best scotch the night before.

He did not touch himself beyond perfunctorily washing all fluids from his skin. It didn’t feel like punishment enough.

After a shave, Glorfindel began feeling more like himself, snagging up a banana to eat as he walked through the clean crisp day, letting the fresh air clear his head.

His phone buzzed with a call.

“Xanthus,” Father greeted him when he answered after the third ring, and Glorfindel felt a hint of trepidation. Xanthus was his name, of course, but not one he’d ever liked – too many memories of his Grandfather laced the syllables – and Father only used it when the topic was more official than Glorfindel would like.

“Father,” he replied, disliking how young he sounded, but being called Xanthus always threw him a little.

“I have been invited to attend the Begetting Day Dinner for Lord Turgon, son,” Morfind informed him, and Glorfindel couldn’t help but groan. “I should like you to accompany me.”

“They expect me, now that I haven’t the excuse of service, don’t they?” he sighed.

Father’s laugh was low and genuine in his ear. “It would be impolite to decline, Glorfindel,” he agreed, “besides, young Lady Idril and Master Tuor are forever asking after you when I see them – it would perhaps do you good to see your old friends, no?”

Glorfindel groaned. It wasn’t that Glorfindel didn’t _want_ to see Idril – or Tuor, for that matter – realising that he’d missed them as he walked down the street, the dark shades covering his eyes making the bright autumn sunlight bearable.

He had been avoiding the people he’d known _before_ aside from Ecthelion, and he knew it. That _Father_ knew it, however, and took steps to take care of his wellbeing in such a small way, was warming – even if the social engagement made him wish for a certain special someone of his own on his arm.

 “Yes, Father. When is the dinner?”

 

 

When Bría finally emerged, the scent of her shampoo enveloped him in a cloud of comfort matching her soft arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tight for a moment. Erestor breathed slowly, feeling himself relax back against her, the scent of her hair familiar like home; something woodsy and floral that her father’s organic farm produced. Erestor merited a few bottles of his own favourite scent for his begetting day each year to keep his long locks in peak condition.

“Time for a break, Esto,” Bría murmured, kissing the top of his head. “Your students will warrant less abysmal grades after lunch and a walk. We’re going to Oro.”

“I _highly_ doubt it,” Erestor grumbled, underlining yet another sentence in red ink, but he got up nonetheless, stretching the kinks out of his shoulders and back before putting on his blazer.

Bría grinned at him. “Perhaps,” she agreed sagely, “but you owe me all the juicy gossip from the Ball and your non-date-date with Mr. Perfect Blonde Muscles.”

Erestor blushed. “It was _not_ a date, Bría!”

“If you saaaaaay so,” she trilled back at him. Erestor scowled.

 

 

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Ecthelion asked gently, stopping his hand halfway towards Indilë’s shoulder.

“Not… not right now,” she admitted, turning her head to look at him again. “Some day, maybe, but…”

“It’s okay, Indie,” Ecthelion smiled. “We don’t have to rush anything – do what feels comfortable to you.” To his surprise, a shy smile spread across her lips, accompanying the blush that stained her cheeks a pretty pink.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, reaching out to squeeze his knee.

A warm feeling moved through Ecthelion, something he’d call equal parts pride and love. Catching up her long slender fingers he gave her hand a small squeeze in return, pleased by the smile that seemed to grow as he got up.

“Breakfast, my sweet?” he offered instead, looking back at her with a small smile, those blue eyes showing a hint of green in the morning light when he pulled the heavy curtains from the window.

Indilë drew in a breath of sudden desire, watching Ecthelion’s body limned by morning light. His hair was a bird’s nest but the boyish smile he gave her, somehow not incongruous with the full beard, made her heart flutter. _You are beautiful_ , she thought, squashing the _want_ that seemed to melt her bones when she looked at him.

“Breakfast?” she murmured confusedly, lost in a small daydream. Shaking her head to clear it, she managed to nod, her mouth dry. _What would he think to know me so wanton?_ Breakfast was certainly wiser than staying in this bed that smelled like both of them, smelled like _home_ , and the fantasies that thought inspired. Nodding decisively, she pushed herself off the bed, drawing her robe closer around her and finding her slippers with her bare feet. She wilfully did not look at Ecthelion, even if part of her wanted to see the part of him that had poked her so insistently when she woke up. _Maybe not just ‘see’ it, Indië, be honest._

“I need a shower,” Ecthelion told her, “but we can walk downstairs in 20 minutes?” If Indilë had been braver she might have asked to join him, but she knew she wasn’t ready to face that amount of naked skin or the implications of the desire yet, her heart still tormented by the memories stirred the night before. Instead, she nodded, steeling herself enough to rise onto her tiptoes and press her lips gently against Ecthelion’s cheek – at least, that was her intention, though her aim was a little off.

Her lips burned against the small dimple near the corner of his mouth that Ecthelion had always considered a feature of his babyface; the real reason he’d grown out his beard once it began to come through in a less patchy fashion than the early teen scruff had predicted. Blushing brightly, Ecthelion nodded woodenly as Indilë took a step back, giving him another of those lovely shy smiles before opening the door for him.

The wood of the door was cool against his forehead but the slight chill did little to still the raging inferno of lust roaring through his blood. Ecthelion groaned.

He valiantly tried not to imagine Indilë joining him the shower.

He failed.

 

 

In her own room, Indilë was having what she considered a ‘normal’ minor freak-out, staring at the blouses and skirt suits in her suitcase that seemed too dressy and professional for breakfast with the man she liked. Blushing at the way her brain insisted on adding the phrase _like-_ like to Ecthelion’s face, as if she was a teenager in a rom-com film, she undressed herself and turned the water on, wincing at the sight of the tangled mess that was her hair.

Shampoo, conditioner, and vigorous use of her hairbrush managed to tame her long locks, and a few pins secured the main part of it behind her head, but by the time Indilë was satisfied with the woman in the mirror, she had little time to think of clothes. The light green dress she picked had been an impulse buy at the airport, but it suited her navy blazer and it wasn’t so short it could only be considered a clubbing dress. With a pair of sandals and a belt she looked as casually pretty as her wardrobe would allow.

 

 

The headache was subsiding, though the guilty thoughts that had led him to spill into his own fist more times than he’d like to admit, lingered.

_Why does Erestor have to have a girlfriend?_

As though summoned by the thought, Erestor appeared before him, accompanied by none other than the pretty ‘Bría’.

Glorfindel was not exactly _proud_ of the way he ducked down a side street to avoid them.

He sped up, turning another corner before they would have reached his first escape route, and then another.

He was even less proud of the way he followed them, listening to the snippets of conversation the wind brought him as they wandered along in the sunlight. Bría’s hand was tucked into Erestor’s elbow; oddly old-fashioned, yet so fitting for the man, Glorfindel thought. Erestor had definitely been raised to be a gentleman, even if he wasn’t part of the crowd of wealthy young aristocrats that Glorfindel had spent his youth with at Gondolin Preparatory.

They ducked into the Foresta d’Oro, both of them greeted by the Mama of the establishment, in a way that made Glorfindel realise that Bría was the daughter of the house and Erestor no less loved before the door swung shut and he had to keep walking to avoid looking suspicious.

The scent of warmth and sugar wafting out of the open doors of a small bakery a little ways down the street drew him in like a moth to flame. The windows were filled with goodness of all baked varieties – many he could have sworn no one in Tirion would have even heard of – and Glorfindel’s hand was on the door-handle before he knew it.

“Welcome to Miss Bella’s,” the cheerful girl behind the counter greeted, “how may I help you today?”

It wasn’t just a bakery, Glorfindel realised, but also a small café, inviting polkadot chairs surrounding a few small round tables with actual tablecloths. Part of him wondered if he’d fallen back in time about a century, but looking out the window behind him revealed the street he’d stood on, the modern billboards advertising along the skyline.

“Cake?” he ventured a guess, lifting the shades and discovering that his eyes were blessedly unbothered by the light of the sun setting. The girl grinned, her freckled nose charmingly turned up at the tip.

“You look like a guy who likes a sophisticated kind of cake,” she said confidently. “Something dark with fruit and good chocolate…”

Glorfindel felt his teeth water. He nodded, unzipping his hoodie.

“One slice of schwarzwalder kirschtorte coming up. Drink?” she asked, loading the large piece of baked perfection onto a patterned plate.

Glorfindel nodded again, fondling in his pocket and feeling distinctly relieved when he realised that although he wasn’t carrying his wallet, he _was_ carrying a plastic card. “It’s a chocolate kind of day,” he sighed.

“Chocolate milkshake it is – want a coffee, too?” the waitress replied, and Glorfindel wondered exactly how hungover he really looked, but nodded. Maybe a cup of coffee would get his head back on straight.

“Thanks.” Smiling, he paid for his food and carried the plate to a small table by the bay windows, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face through the glass.

The coffee was pure ambrosia, the cup drained in a single swallow. The cake was better, that sweet-tart burst of cherries over his tongue heavenly.

Glorfindel sighed, leaning back against the surprisingly comfortable chair, and closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the flavour.

 

 

The sun was already setting by the time they left Mama Galadriel’s well-meaning fussing, each of them carrying a bag of dinner that Erestor had only tried to offer a token protest against being given.

“Oh,” he breathed, staring through the shop window of Miss Bella’s Café.

“Hmm?” Bría hummed, stopping beside him. “Oh- _oh_ – see something you _liiiike?_ ” she teased, poking Erestor’s side.

 _“Shush!”_ he hissed, dragging her past the tempting view of Glorfindel relaxing in the late afternoon, a fork held negligently in one hand and an expression of enjoyment on his face that gave Erestor’s libido far too many ideas.

“Because I can totally see why – even though I’ve never been into blondes,” Bría added conversationally, letting him work to move her for so long that Erestor’s ears were already burning with the probability of being caught ogling his unavailable crush. “Such a shame he’s taken,” she added, sighing as she finally moved out of view.

Erestor’s heart sank at the reminder. “I need a date – someone to get me over this stupid crush,” he muttered, striding along the pavement.

“Feeling horny, Esto?” Bría grinned, hugging his arm.

Erestor scowled at her.

“ _Yes_.”

 

 

Packing up his suitcase after spending most of his Sunday roaming the streets of Umbar with Indilë’s hand in his, Ecthelion felt almost melancholy at the thought of returning home to Tirion. He wasn’t quite sure where she lived, though he thought her place was somewhere in the South-East of town.  

“The taxies should be here in a few minutes,” Indilë told him, as though her presence had been summoned by his thoughts.

Ecthelion jumped a little, staring at his open suitcase.

“Yes… I’ll be ready,” he promised, turning around to smile at her. Indilë looked like spring in her soft green dress; the heat of Umbar was a stark contrast to the autumn chill awaiting them back home, and Ecthelion felt almost too warm in his long trousers.

“It’ll be much colder at home,” she sighed, echoing his thoughts as she tugged on the hem of her dress. “Time to dig out the leggings again.”

“I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed… if Glorfindel has managed to unpack it, mind.” He felt guilty for abandoning his housemate in the middle of the moving process, but the previous owners of the new flat had not wanted to leave earlier and the painters and such had needed a few days to get the place shipshape.

“Me too,” Indilë sighed. “My own bed, I m-mean,” she stammered nervously, cheeks glowing.

Ecthelion grinned.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind you sleeping in my bed, you know,” he chuckled, turning to wink at her before closing the lid of his suitcase.

“Are we…” Indilë paused, taking a slow breath, “you want to…”

“I want to ask you out properly,” Ecthelion offered, feeling his own cheeks burn a little as he ran a hand through his hair. “But we can start with coffee… we’ll be home Monday, so… Wednesday? Give the jetlag time to wear off?”

Indilë nodded, looking at the floor to stop herself staring at the patch of skin revealed by Ecthelion’s shirt rising up. “There’s a café I like near my place,” she replied, “Miss Bella’s – have you been there?”

“Can’t claim to,” Ecthelion shrugged, “but if you like it, I’m sure it’s a good place.” Picking up the case for his cello, he pulled out the long handle on the suitcase and slung his jacket over one arm. “Shall we?”

Smiling, cheeks still a little red, Indilë pushed her own case out the door, her purse hanging over her shoulder and her hair returned to its familiar simple chignon.

Ecthelion would be the first to admit that he checked out her backside as he followed her down the narrow hallway.

 

Hidden beneath the fabric of his jacket, Indilë’s fingers found his own, the small gesture unnoticed by any of their colleagues amid the revelry of leaving a job well done and returning home.

Ecthelion squeezed back, unable to wipe the grin from his face.

Going to Umbar had been the best idea he’d ever had, he was sure, hoping that the magic of this foreign land would linger once they were home and Indilë had had some time to think about what had happened.

For himself, Ecthelion did not worry, knowing that these feelings had been growing in secret for longer than he’d care to admit and simply excited to see where they’d lead him.

**Author's Note:**

> There are now a few tales from the early life of Erestor and Glorfindel, which have been appended to this story, and make up the series. More to come ;)


End file.
